


Of Power

by Tirith



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Author's headverse, But you'll cry first, Dark Crack, Drama, HEA, Harry Potter is Frodo Baggins, I'll make you cry, Lots of it, M/M, Map Liberties, Not A Fix-It, Not Canon Compliant, Not actually crack, Pre-Slash, Rainbows and Unicorns at the End Await, Rather tragic really, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slash, Slow Burn, There is a sadistic snake around too, Threesome - M/M/M, Timeline Shenanigans, Unresolved Sexual Tension, at some point, bookverse, but no worries, movieverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tirith/pseuds/Tirith
Summary: Harry Potter, now affectionately named Mad Baggins the Second, has no idea that there is, in fact, a lot of history he could accidentally muck up in Middle Earth.Not that this stops him from doing so.Or; how Frodo has a different start, meets his new BFFs in the form of a sadistic snake and a ranger, falls in love and makes a mess of it all in general.120k+Enjoy.(P.S. How the hell is Frodo/Anyone-But-Sam not a thing in the fandom??)





	1. Of The Tumultuous Relationship Between Fate and Harry

**Author's Note:**

> Hey All,
> 
> I make a spectacular Houdini, do I not? Sorry for disappearing on everyone. RL, and All That Jazz. 
> 
> Truly though; I am sorry. And many thanks to all you awesome people who have not forgotten about me, and kept up the encouraging messages. I am grateful :) Also, odd as it may seem, I still hope to get back to my other stories sometime. 
> 
> Now, before you start dreading getting into a story that I might leave hanging again; fear not! This one is only a few chapters short of done! It is a monster of a fic, too. I currently have over 100k of it waiting to be edited for posting, and I estimate the total to come up to a whooping 150k-ish. 
> 
> Now, here go my most important warnings: 
> 
> 1) This story includes character death. 
> 
> 2) I will not really follow canon except in the broadest sense, since I barely remember LOTR, having read it, like, 15+ years ago? So, please do not go gaga over deviations. I did my best, though I have no time for extensive research. It will always make sense, I promise. In fact, I'd wager you yourself do not even need to know LOTR to get this fic. 
> 
> 3) That said, this story is not meant to be a retelling of events Mr. Tolkien cooked up. At all. 
> 
> 4) Finally: I still have no beta.
> 
> Reviews are welcome! And if you choose to flame, make a point, yeah?
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or LOTR.

Chapter 1  
Harry had died. He remembered as much clearly. A pathetic kind of death it was, too, if he may say so himself. A boring death after a boring life. When he had been young, a starry-eyed youth fantasizing about an amazing, simple existence, with an amazingly simple family and equally simple work, he had not quite made the connection between simple and boring. Call it naivety, but after the war, Harry had really just wanted to settle down into the glorious quasi-anonymity of normalcy. So he had, for the longest time, refused to admit, even to himself, that there was nothing glorious about being “just-Harry”. Just-Harry was a sad, bitter, pathetic man who took little joy in life, and whose obsession with making himself out to be nothing special had ruined many a life around him, including his ex-wife’s and estranged kids’. Just-Harry had died alone in his bed with no-one to mourn his unremarkable passing. 

In any case, long story short, Harry very, very clearly remembered dying. He had passed on. He had been no more. He had ceased to be. He had expired and gone to meet his maker. *

However which way one was to put it, Harry should be quite dead, all in all.

Alas, Harry, at that particular moment, was obviously not-so-dead. Why, for Morgana’s sake, was he not dead? And, as for the rotten cherry upon the cake, why, pray tell, was he wriggling around, gurgling and slobbering all over himself in the body of an infant, while sitting on the lap of a cooing Lily Potter?  
It had to be karma. Or perhaps Fate was collecting its dues. Maybe, since Harry had so stubbornly clung to simplicity in his life, even to the detriment of himself and his loved ones, Fate decided to take all the freakishness he had missed out on and heaped it on him at the last possible moment, tenfold. Well. Didn’t Harry feel oh-so-special.

Fate was a bitch. Harry really hoped she could sense the gigantic middle finger he was mentally waving around in her direction amidst the internal temper tantrum he was throwing.

When was he, anyway? He had been a year old when Voldemort had come to kill him. Judging by the fact that he did have some measure of control over his tiny body, not to mention the itching gums in the places Harry could feel his baby teeth growing in, the day the Dark Lord would arrive could not be too far off.  


While Harry had been trying to make sense of the situation, lost in thought, James Potter had appeared, standing behind the rocking chair his wife sat in with his hand on her shoulder. He smiled at his son, expression warm, and squeezed Lily’s shoulder.

“Come, Lils, dinner is ready. Mimsy already set the table.”

Lily nodded and stood. She followed the man out of Harry’s blue bedroom into the kitchen that doubled as a dining room, carrying Harry to the table and depositing his slobbering self into a high chair by the table. Harry, having been too preoccupied by his oddly alive state of being to take proper note of his surroundings so far, now glanced around. His gaze rested on a small, female house-elf for a moment, likely the aforementioned Mimsy. Harry wondered what had become of her, since no one had mentioned the Potters having owned a house-elf. His eyes then darted around the spacious room, many of the kitchen appliances muggle-style – courtesy of Lily, no doubt – before coming to rest on his parents. 

It was disconcerting, seeing them alive. Not that Harry didn’t appreciate the chance to meet them, but, in all honesty, he had died at a hundred and twenty. While the idea of parents had been important when he had been a child, but after so many decades, anyone would distance themselves emotionally, especially from people they had never met, parents or no. However, Harry did enjoy being able to observe them for himself.

Lily was indeed as beautiful and radiant as people had always said, with long, flaming red hair that looked similar to Ginny’s before she had begun graying. Harry winced at the thought of his ex-wife, and quickly turned his attention to James, the man who was supposed to be his spitting image. As far as Harry could see, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. There were similarities between father and son, there was no denying that, but besides the bad eye-sight and a few prominent features, such as the hair, the high cheekbones and the shape of their jaws, they shared very little. Where James was tall and had shoulders a mile wide, Harry had been short and scrawny. James had tanned skin, strong-boned limbs, and a long, pointy nose, as opposed to Harry, who had had a paler constitution with a far more bird-like bone structure, and a small nose with a softly sloping bridge. Why everyone had insisted on comparing him to James, he would never understand. Harry guessed it had been more wishful thinking than anything else, a way for James’ friends to connect with him after death. Still, he felt a twinge of disappointment that people he considered family had used him to project upon their image of James.

The family had an uneventful dinner. Harry watched his parents interact and was almost jealous of the comfortable dynamic they shared, their love for each other quiet but plain to see. The way their eyes met, the small smiles, the soft, unconscious touches, everything about them attested to the depth of their feelings for each other. Harry had never had this. He and Ginny had never been in love. Well, perhaps there had been love on Ginny’s part, but Harry had certainly never been in love with her. Love her, yes. But he had not been in love. He had realized it after a few years, of course, but by that time they had already had kids and a life together, and Harry had never even considered the possibility of a divorce until out of the blue, Ginny had presented the papers well over two decades later.

Harry had had his nice, normal life all planned out; finish school, marry, work, have kids, have grandkids, retire, die. After the war, he had wasted no time. He and Ginny had been married within a year, and the kids had followed right after, as was expected of a proper family. He had not noticed, or perhaps had not cared to notice, that Ginny was growing more distant and depressed, that her idea of a family was not one of preconceived images but one of mutual understanding and comfort. Harry didn’t understand comfort, however. He only knew what normal was supposed to be, and so he lived by that, without considering that his clinging to the idea of a proper, happy life was ruining his actual reality. In the end, after Ginny had left, Harry had grown bitter, and had found remedy for his self-loathing at the bottom of the bottle. His kids and friends eventually grew tired of trying to help him, and, slowly, they all disappeared from his life.  


By the time he hit ninety, Harry had gotten somewhat better. He had started to write, published journals and did some research on spell-crafting, and lived out the remainder of his years in the solitude of his home. Sober, to be clear.

By this time, Harry of course realized that the Dursleys had done more damage than what met the eye. His years spent under their loving care had stunted him, he knew. When he had been younger, Harry had never considered his treatment there as abuse, but with age came some amount of wisdom, and he realized that what that family had done to him was more than a little horrific. The fact that everyone he knew reinforced the idea that living there had been a bearable necessity for his own good hadn’t helped matters either. Thinking about it made him quite angry, to be honest. His friends, who had been just as young and gullible as him had been one thing, but the adults? Sirius, Remus, the Weasleys to name a few. Instead of turning to the authorities, Molly had thought sending the occasional meal by owl was the appropriate action to take when dealing with a kid obviously being starved and imprisoned by his abusive family. Harry had never heard more about the issue than a passing remark about his weight every now and then. And then there was Dumbledore himself, who had truly been in a position to help, what with being Harry’s official guardian in the magical world, yet not only had he left Harry in that household in the first place without checking on him, but had also repeatedly reasoned that Harry’s life there was nowhere near bad enough to warrant any action on his part, except maybe a grandfatherly pat on Harry’s shoulder.

In any case, Harry spending his youth with his dear aunt and uncle had far-reaching consequences. Harry had grown up as a slave, in the truest sense of the word. The times he hadn’t been on the receiving end of degrading speeches about his own worthlessness and freakishness, Harry had been locked away in a dark little cupboard and had been entirely ignored, as if he hadn’t existed at all. That is, until the Dursleys had found use for him by making him do the housework. Harry had cooked for them, cleaned for them, washed for them, weeded for them, and all he had got as thanks were glares and hateful comments. Though only on the rarest occasions had his punishments gotten physical, he had been regularly deprived of food. Those damned people starved a child with deliberate intent to harm, for Merlin’s sake Those people had deprived their charge of both of sustenance and any positive human contact whatsoever, all the while living their amazingly normal, lovely life. Was it any wonder that Harry turned out a bit wonky in the head? As a young boy, Harry had wanted nothing more than to be included in the family. He had craved love and acceptance but had only been able to watch from the outside how a perfect, normal family was supposed to work. Harry had equated that with happiness, since he had no other reference point. He wanted to be happy, so he had wanted a normal family. And that was what he had gotten later in life. Except, Harry hadn’t realized that he had never been happy, nor had he made anyone else happy either, at least not until it was too late to fix.

And so, the effortless happiness Harry’s parents were displaying really just made Harry want to cry. He was a part of it too; baby Harry was obviously dearly loved. But Harry couldn’t see it like that. He was an adult, and not the person his parents were cooing at. He was just as much an outsider here as he had been with the Dursleys. This… this was what could have been, the life that had been snatched away from him before he could ever experience it. 

And it would be taken from him again. Harry was only a toddler. The most he would be able to contribute to the impending fight against the Dark Lord would be blowing a raspberry or two.

The days after his arrival passed slowly. Harry was bored out of his mind most of the time and had nothing better to do than count the passing seconds. Exciting. It all came to an end soon enough, however. Harry knew that their time together was drawing to a close when he spotted the first Halloween decorations popping up around the small house in Godric’s Hallow. He was prepared for it. When the inevitable time of the attack came, Lily had just taken the homemade pumpkin pie out of the fridge and had immediately dropped it when she heard Mimsy’s pained squeak followed by a quiet thud. 

Harry’s parents burst into action. James moved towards the front door while shouting at his wife to take Harry and run. Lily thundered up the stairs with tears pooling in her eyes, and Harry winced when she squeezed him a bit too tight after she heard James’ body hitting the floor. The following silence was unnerving, broken only by Lily’s panicked pants and Harry’s muffled sniffling. They burst into Harry’s bedroom, and he was quickly placed in his crib, Lily whirling around with her wand pointing at the door. She drew sobbing breaths, staring ahead with tears streaming down her cheeks. 

As she stood there, quivering, she started fumbling with the collar of her robes using her free hand. Despite her trembling, she managed to tug a chain free, and fingered the pendant that hung on it, murmuring under her breath before kissing it. Harry couldn’t see what kind of pendant it was, but as soon as it touched Lily’s mouth, it lit up, emitting a beautiful golden glow. Drawing a shaking breath, Lily tore the chain from her neck with a harsh tug, and threw it behind her, hitting Harry’s round tummy with it. 

“…you must touch it, please touch it, please Harry, please…” she chanted under her breath as Voldemort’s unnaturally tall form appeared in the doorway.  


Harry stared in gobsmacked surprise at the glowing necklace, the shape of the pendant vaguely reminding him of a rune, but there wasn’t any time to puzzle through this unexpected occurrence. A sibilant, sinister voice drew his attention back to the pair, and Harry turned his gaze to stare at the monster that still haunted his dreams on occasion. Voldemort was, frankly speaking, uglier than any creature Harry had ever seen. And Harry had seen acromantulas and basilisks, so that was saying something. The sickly pale thing had a flat, bony face with thin, vertical slits to function as a nose, and Harry watched them flare with every inhaled breath in disgust. 

Harry heard his mother’s pleas and watched as Voldemort lost his patience in resignation. He killed the brave witch with a hissed killing curse. Averting his eyes from Lily’s dead body, Harry turned his hateful glare on the Dark Lord, focused on the monster. Harry hoped it unnerved the bastard. He was – very seriously – contemplating blowing that raspberry he had cooked up earlier, if only to see the ugly sod’s reaction, when the muted glow by his feet caught his attention again. Darting a glance at the advancing Dark Lord, Harry quickly bent down and scooped up the necklace with clumsy, chubby little fingers. It was warm, painfully so, and his magic reacted to it at once, as if called to come out and play. Harry wondered if this had happened last time? He couldn’t recall hearing anything about a strange necklace. No one had mentioned such a thing, not even Dumbledore. Had Lily been unable to get the necklace off in time? Or had it been the original Harry who had failed to touch it? After all, he was supposed to be a mere toddler, he likely wouldn’t have followed instructions whispered by his distressed mother if he was only a year old, right? 

Whatever the case, this time, Harry held the necklace in a secure grip, and shuddered as the magic swelled around him. Voldemort paused, but lifted his wand to aim at Harry after a moment of hesitation. Magic was swirling around the room, and Harry was the center of it. Him and the pendant. It was getting painful. A normal baby’s body did not have a core large enough to hold as much power as Harry’s was forced to expel. Even with his larger reserves, he was barely holding out as it was. The necklace kept drawing out more and more magic, and Harry collapsed in his crib a moment later. Voldemort eyed him in confusion, and Harry tried to let go of the pendant, but he couldn’t. His magic was nearly gone. The damn thing was going to turn him into a squib if this didn’t stop!

Voldemort hummed thoughtfully, then scoffed. “Silly mudblood, did she think I would leave you be if she took your magic?” he muttered disdainfully. 

Harry was in too much pain to think. He sobbed as his magic was torn from him, tears, snot and sweat staining his face. He barely noticed Voldemort stepping closer, examining him a gleeful smirk. Harry caught the movement of a wand, and clenched his eyelids shut when a green light streaked towards him.

Harry felt it. He could sense the curse colliding with the edge of the compressed magical storm around him, and instead of bypassing it as any properly cast Unforgivable was meant to, he could feel it getting sucked in to combine with the pendant’s and his own swirling powers, adding the destructive nature of dark magic to the mix. A bubble formed around Harry, the color an acidic green, and the magic continued to spin dizzyingly around him, the pain never ceasing. 

Harry had no idea how long it took, it felt like eons to him, but eventually, everything came to a sudden halt. It was as if time had stopped. Harry’s exhausted, tiny body floated around in the green glow, and just as Harry began losing consciousness, the bubble – that had at some point become solid – shattered. Harry curled into a ball on reflex, and the last thing he knew was sudden, sharp agony flaring up all over his back and legs, sending him over the edge into blissful unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Kudos to all who recognized Monty Python! :P


	2. Of Early Life with Hobbits

Chapter 2

 _“Prim! Prim, come quickly!”_ Harry heard the frantic shout from somewhere close by. The voice was male, though he couldn’t understand it; the words were foreign. He heard the sound of dried leaves rustling to his right, the dull thudding of hurried footsteps getting nearer. 

Harry was in so much pain. Every single part of his body ached, most of all the place inside him where his magic used to be, but was now no more than a pulsing, shredded mess, and so very empty. The feeling was comparable to his heart getting ripped out of his chest by a savage hand. Harry couldn’t understand how he could have possibly survived this. He should be dead. This kind of pain was not meant to be lived through. 

Harry had trouble breathing, he kept gasping like a dying fish, and his growing panic soon froze up his airways completely.

 _“PRIM!”_ Harry heard as he started losing consciousness again, the voice now right beside him. He tried to open his eyes, but nothing happened, except for a vague flutter of his lashes. He wondered, distantly, where he could have ended up, as it was obvious that he was no longer in his crib. Had he accidentally apparated?

 _“Oh, Yvanna!”_ exclaimed a trembling, feminine voice as a second set of footsteps ran towards them. _“That poor little faunt! There’s so much blood… Bring the babe, Drogo, hurry!”_

Harry would have screamed his tiny lungs out had he any breath left, when he felt large hands touch his throbbing back, and he gladly fell into blissful oblivion a moment later, barely realizing that he was being moved before his thoughts were consumed by darkness.

#

Harry came to slowly, noticing that instead of sprawling on the cold, hard ground, he was on a comfortable mattress, lying on his stomach. His back still hurt, but it was somewhat more manageable now that his weight was not resting on it. Harry also felt bandages around his torso and legs, so his injuries had probably been tended to. When he turned his head to the side and opened his eyes, he found himself face-to-face with two worried faces hovering right beside him. He blinked at them in confusion. 

There was something odd about them, but at first glance Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason. It was only when the woman of the pair turned to glance at the male that he realized that the ears somehow did not fit. They were big and a bit pointy, decidedly not human. The faces, however, were average yet kind. Both had soft features, round cheeks and – dare he say cute – button noses, although in truth they did not look anything alike. The male had neat dark curls and deep-set brown eyes with a serious look to them, while the woman was blond, a mess of curly hair tumbling down her back and over her shoulders. She had bright eyes that hid a twinkle of mischief, even as her brows furrowed in worry. 

_“Hello, little one,”_ she murmured.

Harry blinked at her owlishly. He produced an involuntary sound of confusion, though he winced when the it aggravated his sore throat. All the screaming, he reckoned.

 _“Hello,”_ the man also said. Harry turned his gaze to watch him. A greeting, perhaps?

His thin voice gurgled something sounding vaguely questioning, making the adults smile, although they shushed him right away, the woman stroking his head.

 _“So cute, Drogo,”_ the woman said, not taking her eyes off the toddler. The man hummed in agreement while Harry tried to make sense of the words, though he gave up as the woman continued speaking. _“I want to keep him. Who could have been heartless enough to leave a small faunt in the forest, so injured? Despicable! Imagine if we hadn’t gone mushroom hunting!”_ she hissed, glancing at her partner. _“The poor dear couldn’t have gotten to that place on his own.”_

 _“True,”_ the male replied thoughtfully. _“Even if he does look a bit odd, that’s no excuse for abandoning a youngling. But are you sure about keeping him, my dear? You saw how old Siegebert reacted to him when he treated the wounds,”_ he questioned with caution coloring his tone.

The woman glared. _“Yes,”_ she snapped. _“Let them proper folk talk all they want! The faunt needs a home, and we will gladly give it. Small feet and round ears are no reason to shun him! He is the right size, like a hobbit child, so he must have at least one hobbit parent, anyway.”_

The man nodded and sighed deeply. _“That Bracegirdle harpy sniffing around Otto will be a right bother.”_

The woman smirked with mischief twinkling in her eyes.

 _“How shall we name him?”_ The man asked, cringing at the expression. 

_“Hm, how about… Frodo? Yes, Frodo Baggins.”_

_“A fine hobbit name indeed.”_ Turning to Harry, the man said, _“Frodo it is. Hello, little Frodo.”_ He patted Harry’s head, repeating the name once. _“I am Drogo,”_ he pointed at himself and then gestured towards the woman, _“and this lady is Prim. Drogo,”_ he repeated again, _“and Prim.”_

Those were their names. He understood as much, and he was apparently to be called Frodo in the future. It was a nice name, Harry- Frodo thought, and the language had a soothing ring to it. It would be fun to learn.

Frodo yawned, blinking at the pair sleepily. He wanted to go back to sleep, but he was thirsty and hungry. He smacked his lips a few times, hoping one of them would realize what he wanted.

 _“Are you hungry, dear one?”_ Prim said, humor flashing in her eyes. _“Wait just a moment, the cranky old codger told us that you should be able to eat mashed fruits and vegetables…”_ she said while disappearing for a moment, only to walk back with a small bowl of strawberries, a fork and a teaspoon in hand. She sat down beside Frodo, the bed he was lying on more than large enough to accommodate them, and she started mashing the fruits with the fork vigorously, a silly frown of concentration on her face.

 _“Prim!”_ Drogo reprimanded in the meantime. _“Be more respectful. He is the only healer on this side of the Shire, it wouldn’t do to alienate him. Besides, that’s no way to talk. You wouldn’t want little Frodo to learn such improper conduct, now would you?”_

Prim rolled her eyes. _“Of course not,”_ she said. Having finished her attack on the strawberries, she set them aside for the moment. She added in a mutter, _“Yvanna save us all from improper conduct.”_

Examining Frodo with a critical eye, she gazed at the bandages covering the wounds on his back, buttocks and legs. She scooted closer after some contemplation and gently slid her arm under him, lifting him to lie on her lap face-down, holding his upper body further up so he would be able to eat without aggravating any of his injuries. _“Come, Drogo dear. Shovel that goop in, would, you?”_

Drogo frowned at her, looking scandalized, but then stepped closer with a resigned shake of his head. He sat beside Prim, took the bowl in hand, and offered Frodo the fruits on a teaspoon. 

Frodo chomped down, humming contentedly. Strawberries were great, even if all squished. 

After eating his fill, he yawned again, and squirmed in discomfort when he realized he needed to relieve himself. Letting out a fussy whine as his horrifying situation registered, Frodo finally let go and emptied his bladder into the nappy he was dressed in, a disgusted pout on his face. Merlin. At least he had been able to use the potty while living with the Potters, managing to keep at least a bit of his dignity intact. They had been so amazed and proud. This time, however, being unable to move Frodo had little choice. If he at least had magic…

Oh no. Frodo was not thinking about that. Nope.

Frodo shuddered as panic clawed at the back of his mind, but he swallowed and did his best to push it back down, deep into his subconscious where it belonged. The gaping emptiness in him was hard to ignore, but Har- Frodo had been a Griffindor once, long ago, and he was still as stubborn as a mule. He would not think about his magic. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Frodo just couldn’t deal with it. It felt like the loss of a limb. Worse, even. It felt like he lost his soul.

Frodo squirmed, fussed and pointedly tugged at the soiled nappy, until he was mercifully divested of the thing and changed into a fresh one. Drogo – the coward, Frodo noted – was quick to escape the room when Prim was unwinding the dirty cloth, although the woman just scoffed at him in good-natured amusement. 

Once clean and dry, Frodo was placed back on the bed carefully, and Prim ran her fingers through his hair in a soothing gesture. She hummed a low tune, and soon Harry fell asleep, a sigh on his lips. 

#

Smials were amazing. Frodo adored living in one. Since it was more or less a hole under the ground, everything smelled a bit like earth inside. It always felt like the home, as well as its inhabitants, were not only close to nature but a part of it. 

Frodo loved climbing on the roof. During the past four years he had spent in this odd place called Middle Earth, he could often be found staring at the passing clouds on the grassy hill for hours on end, feeling like he was on top of the world.

In the beginning Prim and Drogo – who he had started calling mom and dad as he ‘learned to talk,’ making them light up in happiness every time he said the words – had spent their days in utter terror on a regular basis, running after their all too independent toddler of a son as Frodo explored their little corner of Buckland. He wandered around the garden, delighted in visiting the shallow fishing pond close by, and just enjoyed existing in general. It was peaceful in a way his previous life had never been. Nothing here was forced or fake. It was freedom.

Odd as Frodo was to begin with, what with his uncertain origin and somewhat unhobbit-like features, it didn’t take long for his adoptive mother and father to accept that his behavior also differed vastly from what was considered normal for faunts in these parts. Perhaps there were places in Middle Earth where babes matured far faster than they were used to; who was to say their son had not come from somewhere like that? Well, at least one of his birth-parents could have been from such a foreign land, in any case, since it was still apparent to them that Frodo was part hobbit.

In any case, when it came down to it, no matter how young, the boy could be trusted to take care of himself well enough, staying close to the adults and well out of danger even when left to his own devices. Not to say Frodo was ignored, his parents taught him, doted on him, nagged him and scolded him often enough, but if he popped out of sight for a while no one lifted an eyebrow anymore, as Frodo was trusted to reappear soon enough. Besides, ever since his parents had begun giving him more freedom, it was rare that he disappeared without telling them where he could be found, and he always remained within shouting distance. He enjoyed exploring the beautiful surroundings, not the company of Buckland’s other residents, so Frodo stayed within the boundaries of their own land, if only to avoid the disapproving stares and constant whispers his presence tended to cause.

Indeed, there were some drawbacks, too, when it came to living among hobbits.

The attention he garnered was more than a bit disconcerting. As Harry Potter, the constant stares had eventually subsided as the years had passed by, and since Harry had evidently been doing his very best to remain as uninteresting and ordinary as possible, the Wizarding World had grown bored of him. Harry had spent more than half his life as a perfectly average member of the community, not getting mobbed for autographs and handshakes, nor glared at for some Skeeter-begotten article or another. That, at least, had been one aspect of his adult life that he had honestly enjoyed.

As Frodo, it was back to square one. From the moment the folk of Buckland had caught sight of him the first time his new mother had taken him to the market a few weeks after his arrival, the gossip had begun. Frodo was quite unlike other hobbits. His ears were round, for one, though the messy black hair that had sprouted on his head now covered the tips, so it was not that visible any longer. The hair itself was, at least, hobbitly enough, but his facial features were a different story. Although still chubby with baby fat, the underlying structure was obviously bony, even delicate, as opposed to the rounded, stocky faces of the average Shire resident.

What really caught the public’s attention, however, were the feet. Very small, very bare feet, not even a sparse tuft of fur having the decency to grace it. Every gaze was drawn to the hairless appendages whenever Frodo was out and about with his mother, hobbits gawking at them, horrified yet fascinated by the unnatural sight. It was often speculated that the boy might have originally been a man-child instead of a hobbit, possibly cursed by the Valar – this world’s equivalent of gods – to be an outcast from every known race on Middle Earth for some horrible transgression or another. The esteemed folk of Buckland eventually seemed to forget – or ignore, Frodo couldn’t be certain which – that the person they sneered at so was no more than a small child. Well, at least as far as anyone here knew, as the case may be.

Frodo had never told his parents, let alone anyone else, about his past, giving no indication about his true origins. He was always careful to act in a reasonably immature way, though he nonetheless seemed like a quiet little prodigy no matter how much he attempted to emulate the behavior of a child. He simply couldn’t bring himself to wail and scream and, well, make more of a nuisance of himself than he already often was. He truly would have died thrice over of boredom if he hadn’t received a reasonable amount of mental stimuli over the years, so Frodo spent a great deal of his time chasing after his parents, nagging them to tell him stories or demanded to be read history books from Drogo’s study. He had picked up the language, Westron, so fast, it astonished even himself, possibly due to him being an actual kid’s body, possessing their increased capacity to learn. From there on out, Frodo had been determined to collect as much information as he possibly could about this fascinating world. His poor parents were hard pressed to keep up with him, and Frodo would have felt inordinately guilty to try their endless patience further.

In any case, all the collective sneering and mean-spirited gossip circulating around Buckland used to cause Frodo no small amount of embarrassed and hurt, even though it felt odd to feel self-conscious about – as far as he was concerned – perfectly normal feet. These days, however, he just scowled at or outright ignored each disdainful face he came across, his flat stare and eerie, bright green eyes unnerving enough to make people turn away with a shudder if they got caught in the gaze. It was nostalgic.

#

Frodo was absolutely fascinated by the elder Master Baggins. He had been six when they had first been introduced to each other, right after his very first adventure with his parents; a boating trip to the Shire proper on the Brandywine river… well, it was more a stream, in Frodo’s honest opinion, but who was he to argue hobbit semantics? In any case, after his exuberant mother had wheedled and begged and outright demanded that the family go on an adventure, Drogo had given in, and planned a very moderate, most hobbit-friendly outing to placate his Tookish little wife. 

That morning, Drogo dressed in his third best, toffee-colored waistcoat, white shirt and freshly pressed, brown trousers while his mother and Frodo watched the primping man in amusement. After eating second breakfast, she and Frodo waited another half an hour for Drogo to deem himself suitably prepared for the day, and when they set out at long last, Drogo made them all turn back home right before climbing into the boat that had been waiting for them, since they had all forgotten their umbrellas, which they obviously all needed just in case the weather turned bad. Once they all had the important necessities, they set out again, this time managing to get into the boat and begin their journey. 

They floated downstream with the languid currents for an hour or two, munching on their elevenses, before reaching a small dock on the opposite side of the stream. Frodo hopped out of the boat before his mother could finish steering it into position, rather excited to explore. Buckland was just a small outpost colonized by hobbits, and Frodo had grown up hearing tales of the wondrous Shire from his father, the man’s face lighting up whenever he spoke about the beautiful, idyllic place.

The family took a winding road leading west, and trudged on at a slow, comfortable pace. Frodo kept looking around with wide, curious eyes and a happy smile on his face; the Shire was truly a beautiful place to behold. The endless grassland he had seen from the boat had given way to mysterious looking forests, later morphing into the rockier parts where they switched to hiking. They stopped to eat luncheon near a settlement that his mother called Scary, trudged over a small bridge built over a stream even smaller than the Brandywine, and eventually reached a main road of sorts. After a good while they came across an intersection, and a sign proudly proclaimed the side road to be the way to Bag End. Frodo’s father, who had been dragging his feet for a while by then, panting and sweating and complaining of hunger, perked up at the sight and shot a sunny smile at his wife and son. Skipping ahead, much to the other two’s amusement, Drogo led the way to Bag End, where Master Baggins lived.

The Smial they walked up to looked quite nice, if a bit worn, with a well-kept front garden and porch. The round, red front door held a Welcome sign, under which there was a curious symbol, reminiscent of a rune, burned into the chipping paint. Frodo’s father had eyed it inn a bit of disapproval before clearing his throat and pulling the bell tied above the handle.

“Drogo!” Master Baggins cried as soon as the door opened, and threw himself at Frodo’s father, giving him a bear hug. “I must admit, I never thought you would take me up on the offer to visit. I’m very happy to see you!” Drogo had shifted and patted Master Baggins’ back with an awkward smile, but he appeared pleased nonetheless. Once the embrace broke, Master Baggins waved gaily at Frodo’s mom, then had turned to Frodo with an inquisitive look. “And who might you be, little one?”

Frodo blinked at the odd hobbit, wondering if he hadn’t seen Frodo’s feet, since he behaved entirely unaffected, and- well, why was he so… bouncy, anyway? Frodo had never met another hobbit, besides his mom, who acted quite so improper, so to speak. At the time, Frodo could only vaguely recall something Drogo had told him about dwarves, dragons and old, grey men, but he could have hardly been expected to make the connection and besides, it wasn’t like the story had been all that believable. 

Bilbo chuckled, and Frodo had to be nudged by his mother to stop staring in such a rude fashion. He introduced himself with an embarrassed blush.

“Frodo Baggins, at your service,” he muttered.

“I am very pleased to meet you, young Frodo. I am Bilbo Baggins, your uncle and the Master of Bag End. Drogo told me much about you in his letters.”

“Nice to meet you, Master Baggins,” Frodo answered in a polite tone.

The man waved a dismissive hand at him. “You can call me Bilbo, if you wish?” He did not expect an answer. “Come in,” he herded them inside, leaving Frodo no choice but to close his mouth with a snap.

Once in the Smial, Frodo looked around in awe. Master Baggins- Bilbo was rich! The space he found himself in was large enough to hold their living room twice over, and it was only the entrance hall. The stone flooring was covered with antique-looking rugs, the walls decorated with various pictures, portraits, maps, and knick-knacks, even an otherworldly, silvery sword with beautiful, delicate etchings. Bilbo waited for them to drop their bags and take off their boots, then ushered them into a dining room at the end of a long hallway, right beside a huge, gleaming kitchen. They passed a number of doors, most of them closed, but Frodo glimpsed a cozy sitting room with a fire place and lots of plush seats as he scurried along. 

The dining room had a long table in the centre, one big enough to seat twelve hobbits, at the very least, and the chairs arranged around it were made of wood that seemed to be carved by a master’s hand. Frodo hopped on one right beside the head of the table where Bilbo would be sitting and shuffled around a bit so he could look at the design on the backrest. 

“Do you like it, Frodo? My father made them as a gift to my mother after they had wed,” Bilbo said with a nostalgic smile, carrying a tray leaden by refreshments which he then slid onto the table.

Frodo nodded. “The cravings are pretty,” he murmured.

“Thank you, young one,” Bilbo said warmly.

Since it was nearing dinner upon their arrival, Bilbo invited them to have share the meal and asked them to stay for the night. It was much too late to hike any further that day. Drogo accepted, of course, and the trio was soon treated to a dinner fit for the tables of kings. Bilbo was an excellent cook and made sure to provide enough mouth-watering delicacies to fill an army.

After a merry meal spent with funny childhood anecdotes traded between Drogo and Bilbo, they retired to the sitting room Frodo had noticed earlier. Everyone got comfortable, and just as Frodo would have started to nod off in the lull after dinner, his father asked Bilbo to tell Frodo the story of his great adventure, making Frodo perk up in curiosity, Prim clapping in excitement.

And a hero was born in Frodo’s eyes. 

Bilbo was amazing. He spoke nothing but the truth, Frodo saw it in his eyes. He was kind and compassionate, making friends with dwarves and elves and eagles, and even with an animagus, their kind apparently rare in Middle Earth. He was smart, crafty, brave enough to fight a dragon – which Frodo had first-hand experience with and knew it must have taken an inordinate amount of courage – and Bilbo was also incredibly lucky; an often overlooked talent Frodo valued and admired. He was an eloquent storyteller, too, very well read; a scholar of sorts. He was the sort of studious person that Frodo kept in high regard. 

All in all, Bilbo Baggins was a hobbit to be reckoned with, and Frodo wanted nothing more than to spend his days listening to the man, learning from him, even if Bilbo was decades younger than Frodo, if one wanted to be technical. The hobbit was so much fun to be around. 

He was also a wonderful person, wise beyond his years, and Frodo could honestly say that for the first time in his long life, he knew what it was like to worship someone. Was this how the wizards had felt about him? It couldn’t have been, not with all of them turning against him at a drop of a hat.

From that point on, Frodo pleaded with his parents to be taken to visit Bilbo regularly, to his mother’s great delight and his father’s masked consternation, although they took the direct route after that first adventure most of the time, making the trips much shorter. Spending weeks at Bag End each summer became a habit.

Bilbo never looked at Frodo strangely and had accepted him as he was, feet, ears, odd quirks, maturity and all, just like his parents. At one point, he actually offered to buy Frodo boots for the approaching winter the next time he visited Bree, after having noticed that Frodo’s small appendages were not quite as resilient as a hobbit’s. In the end, Frodo received mittens, a hat and a scarf, too, and spent the freezing months toasty warm.

Frodo truly enjoyed life. His new friend and family were such a positive influence; he would have been hard-pressed to remember a time he had felt this strong sense of belonging and happiness. He managed to forget, at least sometimes, that there was an emptiness in him that he couldn’t fill, no matter how hard he tried. Frodo felt all right during the days, but on occasion, during the dead of the night, he dreamed. He dreamed of witches, wizards, Hogwarts, the Weasleys, magic… It hurt, oh how it hurt to wake up and realize he could never cast a spell again, could never wield a wand because magic had deserted him. It was a crippling loss, and Frodo sometimes could not avoid waking up with sobs racking his frame. He would burst into his parent’s bedroom where he would be shushed and comforted until he fell asleep in their arms. The couple never knew what caused his nightmares, assumed it had to be a subconscious recollection of the time before their child had been found in the woods, but they were always there for Frodo, reminding him that he was no longer alone. 

Truth be told, if Frodo thought about the situation in a different light, he would not trade his life there on Middle Earth for the world, not even for his magic. He was happy, for the most part, happier than he had ever been in the Wizarding World. He was certain that, as was often the case, time would heal the wounds on his soul.

Fate, however, was a cruel mistress after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end of the introductory part of the story. :)


	3. Of Later Life with Hobbits

Chapter 3

Frodo was sitting on the kitchen counter, his feet dangling over the edge, as he nibbled on a honey-lemon scone fresh from the oven. Bilbo puttered about, singing a jaunty, dwarfish tune under his breath. Frodo snickered at some of the raunchier lines.

“You know, Bilbo,” he drawled, “I really don’t think that’s a proper song to perform within earshot of a twelve-year-old.”

“… hm?” Bilbo hummed, attention on the arrangement of assorted delicacies on the tray he would be serving to Drogo and Prim for their wedding anniversary. The couple had decided to celebrate the occasion by going for a romantic boating date on the Brandywine, just floating around the nearby dock for the day, leaving Frodo with Bilbo while they were out. They had been gone since lunch, and it was already dark outside, so they were due back any minute.

Frodo snickered. “I don’t want to know where the ‘good hairy lass put her battle axe’, Bilbo.”

Bilbo froze, and the pointy tips of his ears turned an alarming shade of red. “Yes, well, that. That is- never you mind, Frodo.” He winced at his own stuttering and hung his head in resignation. “Good gracious,” he groaned. “You will be singing this for years,” he whined pathetically. 

Frodo smirked at him with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, but before he could respond, the doorbell rang. Frodo hopped off the counter, wiggled his eyebrows at Bilbo, and ran to open the door with an evil little laugh ringing in his wake.

“Hey… You wouldn’t!” he heard the indignant, but resigned moan. Frodo just cackled.

“Mom! Dad!” he shouted, yanking the door open, but before he could open his mouth to tattle on Bilbo, the words died on his lips. There was a stranger standing on the porch, dressed in worn leather trousers and a matching vest, a loose white shirt underneath and a shiny silver buckle decorating the thick belt on his hips. He also had a cap, a large feather sticking out on the side. A Took, perhaps? Looked like one, to be sure, although he kept fidgeting in place with sweat beading on his temples, his gaze wondering over Frodo’s head, glancing inside the smial hopefully. Not exactly the usual confident, Tookish behaviour.

“Hello, Master…?” 

“Ah, oh… yes, Ebbo Took, at your service,” he muttered with a jerky nod, yanking the cap off. 

Frodo was about to ask what the hobbit wanted when Bilbo shuffled up behind him, wiping his hands in a kitchen cloth and muttering at Frodo in annoyance. Frodo rolled his eyes just as the Took at the door exclaimed in desperation, “Master Baggins!”

Bilbo snapped to attention, eyeing the man. He appeared to know him. “Ebbo? Ebbo Took?” he asked after a moment’s pause. “You patrol this land, correct? Is there a problem?”

Oh, so the guy was a Shirriff, the Shire’s equivalent of the wizarding aurors and the muggle police.

“Ah… well…”

Bilbo frowned. “Well, spit it out already, Master Took? Out with it,” he prompted, a bit rudely. But he was Bilbo ‘the Mad’ Baggins, it wasn’t like people didn’t expect him to be odd anyway, Frodo thought with a wry smirk. 

Ebbo Took gulped and tugged on a lock of his hair. “Yes, erm, that is to say…” Bilbo sighed in exasperation and even Frodo narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, well, ‘tis terrible, yes, very terrible indeed, I-I don’t even know… what…” the hobbit babbled. “It-‘tis the, ah, Master Baggins, the other one, of course, and the Missus you see…” The Shirriff glanced down at Frodo with wide eyes. Frodo sucked in a startled breath.

“My parents? What about them?” Frodo demanded immediately, glaring at the stuttering mess of a man who could not seem to hold his eyes for long, averting his gaze and staring at Bilbo’s forehead instead. 

“…I am truly sorry, Master Baggins, Mister, ah, Frodo, yes? Mister Frodo. There’s been an accident, you see. Down by the river.”

Frodo’s heart sped up, but he was shaking his head in denial. Surely not.

“Accident?” Bilbo questioned in a tight tone, lips pursed.

“They, the Master and the Missus, well, they… we… the Shirriffs, we found ‘em some ways down, reckon they’ve been dragged downstream, and then we came upon an upturned boat by the dock, they musta’ been out havin’ fun, you see, and nobody noticed, few hobbit folk wander near the Brandywine, well, except for the Tooks of course, we Tooks are quite adventurous-“

“Ebbo Took!” Bilbo thundered. “Tell us!”

The Sherriff winced and shuddered, meeting Bilbo’s eyes sadly. “The Master and the Missus are dead. I am terribly sorry, Mister Frodo, Master Bilbo. There was nothing we could do.”

Frodo stared at hm. “What?” he whispered in disbelief. “What did you say?” His voice rose.

The Took shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, lad,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on his own feet. 

Frodo gulped and staggered backwards until he crashed into the rigid form of his uncle. “Bilbo?” he whispered, his tone anguished. “Bilbo,” he murmured, “what do we do?”

The tense body behind him softened a bit, and Frodo felt Bilbo’s arm snake around his shoulders, squeezing in comfort, trying to be reassuring though he had to be hurting just as much. Bilbo had loved his cousin, even more so these last few years, Frodo’s presence bringing Drogo, Primula and Bilbo closer together. Frodo knew this had to be hitting his uncle hard.

This was just so… unexpected. How could this have happened? Death before old age was rare in the Shire, less than three a generation, as far as Frodo knew, and most of those tragedies happened to young Faunts who wandered off and didn’t realize the danger surrounding them. Something like this… It was not supposed to happen. It was not! The Brandywine was just a small stream that trickled at a snail’s pace in the dry season! Barely deep enough in the middle to cover a hobbit! How had Drogo and Prim drowned in that? Inability to swim or no, the current wasn’t strong, the two hobbits could have easily walked towards the shore underwater till they breached the surface. How did they capsize in the first place, for that matter? There was nothing there that could have caused this, especially since the boat had been tied to the dock all along. 

Frodo barely heard the Took Shirriff excuse himself and leave. Bilbo closed the door with a soft snick, and the two of them stood frozen for long minutes, staring ahead sightlessly. Frodo felt Bilbo’s body shake, only small tremors at first, which then turned into bone-jarring shudders. Bilbo’s breath hitched, and he buried his face in Frodo’s shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry, Frodo,” he chocked out. “So very sorry.”

Frodo reached up to grip the arm across his collarbone, squeezing it with strengthless fingers. He let his eyelids droop when Bilbo’s sobs loudened, and tears trickled from the corners of his glassy eyes, leaving salty trails on his cheeks as he drowned in silent grief.

How could this have happened?

#

Frodo spent the next several months in a near-catatonic state. Having never been of a particularly stocky build, with his appetite gone all Frodo could do was to keep himself from starving. Other than that, he eventually grew so thin that Bilbo began to worry his young friend wouldn’t survive to see the next winter. He pleaded, begged, commanded and on one particularly notable occasion forced food into Frodo, but nothing seemed to reach the boy. In the end, Bilbo had broken down in hysterical tears one night over dinner, and Frodo snapped out of his self-destructive wallowing long enough to realize how he affected his poor uncle. All that they had left was each other. Bilbo needed Frodo as much as Frodo needed him. This wasn’t the time to withdraw so selfishly, they had to be strong for each other. 

After that incident, Frodo got a bit better, gradually gaining weight and communicating as much as he could bear. He was tempted to turn to alcohol to help him cope again, but, honestly, his body was only twelve. Even disregarding the detrimental effects the substance may have on such a young, developing body, how was Frodo supposed to get his hands on the stuff? Hobbits were not allowed to drink before reaching their tween years. Besides, Bilbo deserved better than a drunken, barely conscious juvenile hugging his toilet on a nightly basis.

And so, Frodo did his best to do right by Bilbo. The man had taken him in, worried about him, respected him and loved him. The very least Frodo could do was to take care of himself in return. It gave him purpose, and an incentive to pull himself together.

Bilbo noticed the change at once, of course, the relief in his eyes so profound, Frodo felt like he had been punched in the gut. Resolution strong, Frodo had walked up to his uncle who had spent the past few hours in front of the hearth in the sitting room, the flames warding off the autumn chill and providing some comfort. It had taken a while for Bilbo to notice him, so intently had he been staring at the fire, but when he had looked up, his breath had caught at whatever he had seen reflected in the green orbs, and he surged to his feet. Frodo was pulled into a tight hug, the older hobbit tugging him down to sit in his lap, and Frodo was in no state to feel even a lick of embarrassment. Only as he burrowed into Bilbo’s embrace did Frodo notice that he had been weeping, and a horrible, keening wail left his throat while Bilbo rocked him, rubbing his back, trying to soothe him.

“That’s it, Little ‘Bit,” Bilbo murmured, “That’s my lad. Let it all out. Let go and come back to me…” Bilbo trailed off with a shudder. “What would this old hobbit do if you left as well?”

Frodo clutched at Bilbo’s night robe and sobbed in anguish and guilt. He had lost his parents again, and this time it felt ten times worse than it ever had with Lily and James. He felt the loss a great deal more keenly; he had known Drogo and Prim. He adored them. Never had he felt this impotent, crippling, all-consuming pain, not even when he had lost Ginny and the kids. He had loved the idea of his old family and was too attached to his own perceptions to truly love the real people as much as they would have deserved. The only thing that compared to his current anguish had been the loss of his magic and the consequent sense of betrayal that tainted the image of Lily Potter in his memories, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that she had done everything to save him, not to harm him. Had she known? Had she understood what the pendant would do, how it would affect him? Or had she thought it a transportation device? Maybe she really had known it would leave him a squib, and though it would be worth it, since he would likely not remember a thing; not about the pain, or about magic. It wasn’t as if she could have expected her baby son to be a hundred-and-twenty-year-old man in disguise, now could she? 

Regardless, his magic was gone as surely as Prim and Drogo were. The only difference was that Frodo would have gladly given up anything, including his magic, to have his family back again. Prim and Drogo had been his light, his salvation. In their care, Frodo had healed and flourished, decades-old wounds finally scarring over instead of continuing to fester.

He was, however, luckier than he had ever imagined possible to have Bilbo as well. Without Bilbo, this would have broken him. It had done so anyway, if only a little, but Frodo hadn’t lost everything. He had a reason to continue, and what more, he had a reason to get better. Bilbo would not suffer more, if Frodo had anything to say about it. They could make it through this, together. 

#

Frodo didn’t know what to think about Gandalf, the Grey, other than feeling tiny beside the tall man – and wasn’t that a surprise! Frodo hadn’t quite realized how small hobbits were until he met Gandalf and the top of Frodo’s messy hair only came up to Gandalf’s chest. And Frodo was the tallest person in the Shire ever since he had entered his tweens! Either the other dwellers of Middle Earth were oversized, or Frodo himself had shrunk after being transported to this place. He may have simply failed to notice the difference, seeing as nothing else differed much about how he remembered himself at this age. Only his glasses were missing; he did need them to read, but his sight was nowhere near as bad as it had been before, likely due to not spending the bigger part of his childhood in a dark cupboard À La Dursley.

In any case, on the one hand, he was so insanely jealous of Gandalf’s magic, that Frodo felt like he was choking on his own bitterness every time he laid eyes on him. Sometimes, when Frodo was not paying enough attention to his darkening thoughts, and his gaze was drawn towards Gandalf’s towering form, his arms would wind together over his chest in a parody of a hug, his fingers wandering over the skin of his forearms, tapping, rubbing, then scratching viciously until he bled. It was a physical manifestation of his inner feelings, the need to hurt overwhelming in its intensity. It did not matter who Frodo got to hurt as long as it happened, and though harming himself might not have been the healthiest way to deal with the issue, it was a far superior alternative to directing his rage outwards, unleashing it upon people who didn’t deserve such a thing in the least. Bilbo, in particular, didn’t deserve that.

On the other hand, Bilbo loved Gandalf. Since Frodo loved Bilbo, he didn’t want to hurt his uncle by not getting along with the old wizard. Besides, it wasn’t like Gandalf was all that dislikeable. He did have a few quirks and mannerisms that reminded Frodo uncomfortably of Dumbledore, but all in all, Gandalf was a nice enough chap. He came by once or twice every year, stayed for a week at a time, entertained the residents of the Shire with magical fireworks and then disappeared. Out of sight, out mind, as far as Frodo was concerned. Gandalf never went out of his way to corner Frodo either, content to catch up with Bilbo, so disappearing for the majority of the days the wizard spent at Bag End did not raise any eyebrows.

The times that Frodo did spend in Gandalf’s company, he was unfailingly polite. He listened to some of the wizard’s stories with reluctant fascination and enjoyed watching as he and Bilbo reminisced about their shared adventures over pints of sweet, hobbit-brewed mead. When Gandalf left for journeys unknown, preparing his carriage for travel, Frodo would see him off together with Bilbo, the three of them walking together to the bottom of Bagshot Row before Gandalf climbed into his seat and set out.

Other than the occasional visit from the wizard, life was as mellow as ever in the Shire. The proper hobbit folk had even gotten bored of Frodo after a while, picking up much more interesting things to gossip about, like the various misadventures of little Peregrin Took and Meriadock Brandybuck, troublemakers extraordinaire. Frodo had been introduced to them a few years ago, and the demonic duo reminded him of the Weasley twins. He liked them well enough, even counted them among the few friends he had – a whooping list of four, to include Bilbo and Sam, the son of their gardener – although he did feel somewhat sorry for poor farmer Maggot, who was on the receiving end of their pranks more often than not. No too sorry, of course, Maggot was a grumpy asshole, but still. 

All in all, besides a disapproving glance or two, Frodo was mostly left alone and treated akin to Bilbo, the mad, but harmless Master on the hill. With the notable exception of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, hobbits either ignored them or, on rare occasions, tried to engage them in polite discourse as the folk of the Shire were wont to do on market days, only to be left scratching their heads in confusion, at a loss about how to deal with the odd pair. Both Bilbo and Frodo enjoyed exaggerating their roles, secretly enjoying the perturbed looks and wide-eyed disbelief they sowed, snickering about it over the dinner table. 

Lobelia was, of course, a different story. She disliked Bilbo, sure, but with him, she did at least attempt to act like a proper, polite member of society, even if she did look a bit like a constipated beaver when she gritted her teeth, her face morphing into a pinched expression that she likely intended to pass as a smile. With Frodo, however, all bets were off. She was a right vicious bint, her love of money the only thing that rivalled the intensity of her hatred toward Frodo. She had always been amongst the ranks of the more outspoken hobbits that rained insults on Frodo for his oddities, but ever since Bilbo had invited Frodo to live with him, Lobelia had become nigh rabid with irrational rage, and had started many a horrid rumour about the boy in hopes of chasing him off. Securing ownership of Bag End had ever been her dearest of goals, but with the arrival of Frodo, her chances looked slimmer than ever. The fact that Frodo had not seemed to care, nor taken any note of the negativity intended to hurt him, had aggravated Lobelia to no end. Nowadays, seeing the failure of all her schemes, the woman could only hiss at Frodo in resentment. She did so each and every time they had the misfortune to cross paths. Frodo wouldn’t have been surprised if she threw herself to the ground in a sudden temper tantrum of epic proportions.

However, despite Lobelia’s best efforts, the past few years had gone by without too much fuss. Following Prim’s and Drogo’s deaths, it had taken Frodo and Bilbo a long time to start smiling again, but the hurt dulled after a while, losing its sharp edge, and the two were able recall fond memories of Frodo’s parents with but a bittersweet twinge in their hearts.

Bilbo had also become determined to begin his work on the book he had promised himself to write about his journey to Erebor. He had, during the past years, taken to scratching away in the large, leather-bound tome every night by candle light, occasionally lifting the quill to his lower lip in an unconscious gesture of thought, leaving behind ink stains which Frodo liked to tease Bilbo about. 

Frodo admired Bilbo’s dedication. Though he had also written journals and articles in his past adulthood, Bilbo was so much more talented than Frodo had ever been. His uncle had a way with words, as if he laced charms into the text to compel and captivate any who came across the script. His penmanship was also remarkable, so much so that Frodo had commended him about it some years ago, and Bilbo had told him that the elven scripts that Lord Elrond had sent upon Bilbo’s requests and the few texts that he had gotten the chance to study in the halls of Rivendell influenced him a great deal. Frodo’s interest had been piqued, and since then he had wheedled Bilbo into giving him regular lessons in the elven language he knew, Sindarin, so he would also be able to read the books for himself. The flowery elven tongue being so much harder than the straight-laced Westron, Frodo had a hard time wrapping his mind around some concepts of the language, having the most trouble with puzzling out the riddles and metaphors elves tended to write-, and apparently think in, if Bilbo was to be believed. Frodo sometimes got so frustrated, he slammed whatever tome he was struggling with shut, and went out for a walk in a huff, muttering about the stupid elves that ought to just say what they damn well mean, and besides, they were irritating, and Morgana have mercy on them all if ever they made friends with centaurs!

At the moment, Frodo was very close to breaking down in just such a way and was trying his hardest to talk himself out of throwing the aggravating book he held across the field. Sweet Yvanna, how was he supposed to make sense of all that galivanting across Arda, with all the different kind of elves splitting off left, right and centre? He had been lost by the second page!

However, it was just as well that he stopped lazing around for that day. He had a certain hobbit to entertain.

#

“…Bilbo?” Frodo asked, voice high with incredulity, after stepping inside the smial. How had this happened in less than a day? Frodo had only left a few hours ago, and while he had been out, Bilbo had managed to turn the entire place upside down. Everything was a mess; books, maps, and clothes lying around everywhere in haphazard heaps. Frodo raised his eyebrows when a harried looking Bilbo appeared down the hall, head popping out from behind the pantry door. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Bilbo,” Frodo repeated in a measured tone. “Why does our home look like a drunken warg tore through it?”

Bilbo frowned and looked around, head tilting to the side as if he had just noticed the mess. “Oh, that.”

Frodo snorted. “Yes, that.”

Bilbo twitched. Frodo waited.

“Gandalf was here,” Bilbo said abruptly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review? Pretty please?


	4. Of Wizards and Their Vices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the chapter where the action kicks off! :)
> 
> I don't know when I'll be able to update next, but I got four chapters out this week. That has got to count for something?

Chapter 4

_“Bilbo,” Frodo repeated in a measured tone. “Why does our home look like a drunken warg tore through it?”_

_Bilbo frowned and looked around, head tilting to the side as if he had just noticed the mess. “Oh, that.”_

_Frodo snorted. “Yes, that.”_

_Bilbo twitched. Frodo waited._

_“Gandalf was here,” Bilbo said abruptly._

Frodo digested that. “… are you telling me Gandalf did this?” Frodo asked, tone incredulous.

Bilbo frowned, then shook his head distractedly. “What, no! Of course not. Gandalf just came to warn me.”

“Warn you about what?” Frodo asked after the silence had stretched too long, trying not to snap at his uncle. He hated it when the words had to be pried out of Bilbo. Couldn’t he just tell Frodo what happened?

Hesitating a moment, Bilbo stepped out into the hallway and gestured for Frodo to follow him into the sitting room. They took their usual seats by the fireplace even though it wasn’t in use during the warm season, facing each other.

Frodo furrowed his brows. “What’s going on, Bilbo? You are making me nervous.”

Bilbo sighed, and rubbed his weary face. “You surely remember that ring? The one I used to have?”

Frodo’s eyes widened. Of course he remembered! He had felt inexplicably wary of it as soon as Bilbo had revealed the thing not long after the celebration of his 111th birthday party. 

Even then, Bilbo had been reluctant. He had only given in to Frodo’s curiosity after a copious amount of pleading on the boy’s part. Frodo’s interest had been piqued from the very first time he had heard the corresponding parts of Bilbo’s tale about Gollum; a magic ring that worked as an invisibility cloak? It sounded amazing. At least in theory. He had thought it a bit odd how reluctant Bilbo had been to speak of it, let alone show it, but he had initially shrugged it off as unimportant coincidence.

And yet, Frodo had had a Very Bad Feeling about the unassuming little trinket once it had been brought out into the open, and when he witnessed Bilbo’s odd behavior while interacting with the ring first hand, he could admit that he had been scared out of his wits for his old friend. Although Bilbo had appeared a bit overzealous when he had opened up about the subject during their most recent talks, but when holding the ring in his hand? The hobbit had looked downright unhinged, stroking it with a loving finger, a fanatic gleam in his eyes. 

Frodo had grown so scared, he had moved before Bilbo could react and had swiped his hand out, not to take the ring, but to knock it out of his uncle’s hand as fast as possible. The ring had gone flying and landed in the middle of the crackling fire. Bilbo had surged to his feet with a distressed cry and made to reach into the flames with his bare hands before Frodo grabbed him by his arm and hauled him away, yanking him to the other end of the room. Bilbo had fought him every inch of the way, trying to get to the ring, not caring how badly he’d be burned as long as it was back in his possession. The hobbit had flailed and raved, and all Frodo could do was hold on with all his might. He was taller than Bilbo but much thinner, and the struggling man had nearly managed to wriggle out of his grip when Frodo, in an act of desperation, pinched him on the waist as hard as he could. Bilbo had cried out and Frodo winced, but the hobbit had at least stopped trying to get away. They had both stood in place for a while, stunned, panting and hardly daring to move.

Letting go of his uncle only when he had been certain that he would not throw himself into the fire, Frodo had stalked up to the flames, grabbed a poker and had fished the ring out carefully, dragging it through the ash until it sat in front of him, looking innocent enough. Upon closer inspection, Frodo had noticed odd writing appear on the smooth golden surface. The cursive script was a variation of the elven Tengwar, yet it was also unlike any language he had so far come across. Apprehensive and watchful, Frodo had decided to wave Bilbo closer, pointing out the oddity. Bilbo had edged forward, head hanging low in shame, and not daring to come too near. He had squinted down at the band from at least three steps’ distance and had shaken his head to indicate that he wasn’t able to decipher it, not that Frodo thought he could see much from that far, but he wasn’t about to complain. The further Bilbo stayed from the stupid ring, the better.

Following that incident, Frodo had demanded that the ring be kept locked away, and made Bilbo swear never to touch it again. The terrified hobbit could only nod numbly, hardly daring to believe that the obsessed, desperate animal from minutes ago could have been him, and leery enough of the ring to willingly relinquish it, no matter how painful. It had been decided that Frodo would be the one to hide it, so as not to tempt Bilbo.

“Well, you see,” Bilbo was saying as Frodo recalled that day, “I told Gandalf about the ring. The incident with the fire had me… concerned.” The hobbit shuddered. “I realized the bauble was a lot more dangerous than I had imagined and figured it would be best to ask for the advice of Gandalf. He is a wizard, after all, surely he would know how to deal with a magic ring?” Bilbo muttered, voice trailing off.

“I would suppose so.” Frodo nodded. 

“But Gandalf didn’t say much, you know? He just got that pensive look about him – you know the one – and promised to look into the matter. He asked me to keep the ring safe,” Bilbo said, shrugging. “I asked whether he had found anything relevant during his following visit, but he just said he was working on the issue, and that he’d tell me if he had any news. Asked me not to worry about it. This was years ago, though, and I have honestly forgotten all about it.”

Frodo wrinkled his forehead. “And he brought the subject back up out of the blue? Why?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, licking his lips in a nervous gesture. “He stormed in here, even knocked a few crystals off the chandelier,” he added, evidently a little disgruntled about that still, before continuing. “He asked me where the ring was; I told him the truth. That I had no idea, because you were the one to hide it. Gandalf made me promise to find it by nightfall.”

Frodo hummed. “So, is that why you ransacked the smial? You were looking for the ring?”

“Well, yes…” He trailed off.

“Bilbo?” Frodo questioned suspiciously. 

The hobbit heaved a huge sigh. “Gandalf also told me to pack all necessities, since I would be leaving for Rivendell with him on the morrow,” he blurted.  
“What?!” Frodo snapped.

Bilbo bit his lip. “Gandalf, he told me that the ring… Well, it’s quite terrible indeed. He told me I must take it to Lord Elrond immediately, that it is urgent, and countless lives may depend on it.”

Frodo stared, slack-jawed. “What – How – Why… that sly old goat!” he sputtered. “The damn wizard can very well take dangerous magical artefacts wherever he pleases himself!” he hissed, hackles raised. “You are not carrying that thing around, especially not outside the safety of the Shire! I will hear no arguments on this,” Frodo added when Bilbo opened his mouth to protest. “It’s not like you were able to find the ring anyway, right?” He asked with a shadow of a smirk.

Bilbo shook his head, reluctant as the admittance was. 

“Well there you have it. I’m not giving it to you. Let us see how Gandalf will make you run his errands now,” Frodo said, truly angry. What was Gandalf thinking? Bilbo was nearing a hundred and twenty, for the love of Yvanna. Who in their right mind would drag the elderly on some dangerous quest or another? Ridiculous.

“Please listen, Little ‘Bit, Gandalf said– “

“Well Gandalf can go right ahead and harp on about whatever he wants, but I say you stay just where you are, and leave that infernal ring to rot where it is, too. It is secure enough.”

Bilbo bit his lips and glanced down at his lap, hands clenched. “I do so miss Rivendell...” he murmured, letting out a wistful sigh.

Frodo mentally cursed Gandalf to the high heavens. Bilbo was old. Almost too old to travel that far. He had aged gracefully until a few years back, but his health had started a rapid decline a while ago, and he had appeared to have aged decades within months. Come to think of it, that plummet had begun after the 111th birthday party… 

Well, in any case, such a long trip would be taxing. Why had Gandalf seen fit to plant the idea in the stubborn Baggins’ mind? There was no talking Bilbo out of this trip, not without crushing his dreams and taking his smile. 

Bilbo had always said he would one day go back to Rivendell. Perhaps the time had come for that.

“You really want to go, don’t you?” Frodo murmured.

Bilbo smiled and nodded. “I miss it very much. I always dreamed of spending my last good years there, sequestered away in the Great Library. Of course, that had been before we became family. I would now like to share that with you, too.”

Frodo felt a lump form in his throat. He sent Bilbo a tremulous smile and nodded his understanding. Scooting down the sofa he had been sitting on, Frodo moved closer to Bilbo, sitting on the rug by his feet, resting against his uncle’s legs. Bilbo hummed in content and reached down to run a finger through Frodo’s curls.

“Bilbo?”

“What is it, Little ‘Bit?”

“You are still not taking the ring.” Frodo stated.

The hand in his hair paused. “Frodo…”

“No, Bilbo, I mean it. There is something very wrong with that ring. Why can’t Gandalf take it himself, anyway? He said you would be traveling together, no? So, why not pocket the darn thing? Surely he’d be able to ward off any possible negative influence with a spell or something?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Ranted about power and him not being able to resist it.”

Frodo scoffed. He refrained from commenting, however.

“Whatever. If one of us must take the ring, it will be me. We already know how bad an effect it had on you, besides, you could be more susceptible due to your previous exposure to it.”

“Frodo, that’s– “

“An excellent idea!” came an approving cry from outside, filtering in through the open window.

Bilbo and Frodo jumped in surprise, whipping around to find the source of the voice.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo called out tentatively.

“Indeed, that I am. Good Afternoon,” he said, stooping down to peek inside, tipped his pointy hat in greeting and caught the residents’ wary gazes. “Perhaps you would consider inviting me in?” He lowered his brows, and added in a darker tone, “It is unwise to discuss such matters out in the open. Carelessness could cost much.”

Frodo’s brows rose at the ominous warning, but he then shrugged and waved Gandalf to the front door, shooting him a glare when he entered the smial. The wizard lifted his hands, palms out and trying to placate, but Frodo just crossed his arms.

“Frodo, you are behaving quite rudely,” Bilbo observed in a mild tone from behind his nephew before turning to Gandalf. “Hello again, Gandalf. I dare say, I expected you to arrive later.”

The wizard nodded. “I am afraid there is no time to waste, my friend. It is imperative that the ring be taken from here, post-haste. The Shire is in danger.”

“Excuse me?” Frodo cut in with a scowl. “Would you mind telling me what this is about?”

Gandalf shot Frodo a piercing look. “Yes. Yes, I think I shall do just that. Perhaps we could retire to the dining room? I could do with a spot of tea while I explain.”

Bilbo nodded agreeably, and they all hastened further inside. Frodo and Gandalf took their seats around the dining table while Bilbo went to set some water to boil in the kettle.

“Well?” Frodo hissed like an angry cat.

Gandalf had the audacity to smile. He reached up to stroke his long, grey beard with gnarled fingers.

“How much do you know about Arda’s history, lad? Bilbo mentioned that you liked to read, and even studied the Sindarin language, correct?”

Frodo shrugged. “I guess. But I’m not proficient. Not like Bilbo.”

Gandalf waved that off. “Regardless, do you, per chance, know of the lore regarding the Rings of Power? And what of the last war? The War of the Last Alliance?”

Frodo frowned. “Yes, a bit. Less about the ring-lore, elven history books are a pain to figure out, but I have read accounts about the battle between Isildur and the Dark Lord.” he paused. “I do remember mentions of a Ring of Power linked to that last big battle, however.”

“Yes, good. That’s the important bit. That Ring, the One Ring, is the most dangerous artefact created in the history of Arda. The Dark Lord Sauron forged it himself in the fires of Mount Doom with the purpose of controlling all other rings of power made by the elves, distributed amongst the free people of Middle Earth. He had imbibed the One Ring with his own tainted power and when he lost it, most of Sauron’s power also deserted him. Thus the reason The Last Battle was won by Isildur cutting it off the Dark Lord’s hand.”

Frodo nodded his understanding with a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach. 

“What happened to the One Ring?” he asked in trepidation.

Gandalf smiled grimly, his eyes holding more despair than humour. “You have caught on fast, lad. The Alliance had meant to destroy it by throwing it into the fires of Mount Doom, however… The Ring itself holds so much of the Dark Lord in it, it is almost sentient, and its sole purpose is to reunite with its Lord. The Ring had started to corrupt Isildur as soon as he lay his fingers on it. Suffice it to say that Isildur was soon killed, the Ring was never destroyed, and it had been lost ever since.”

Frodo looked at Gandalf in horror, thinking of the insane creature from Bilbo’s tales. “…Gollum?”

The wizard nodded. “Indeed. That is my suspicion. I did not yet get the chance to confer with Saruman, the White Wizard, who is more knowledgeable about these matters than I, but at this point, I think it is better to be safe than sorry and act as soon as possible. I would have liked to confirm the possibility, of course, and I will ask for his counsel as soon as I get the chance to visit, but it would be unwise to let the matter lie, even for a short while.”

Frodo sat in horrified silence, barely noticing Bilbo entering the room with a tray in hand, depositing it on the table and setting a cup of tea in front of all three of them before taking a seat beside Frodo, facing Gandalf.

The wizard, however, wasn’t done yet. “Speaking of Gollum, he is also the reason for our departure being so urgent. You see, Gollum – or Smeagol, as I’ve learned he used to be called – had been captured by rangers a scant few weeks ago. He was in a horrific state, evidently starved and tortured and even madder than he had been to begin with, I’m afraid. We were able to learn some worrying information from his mostly incoherent ravings, though. He seemed to have been held prisoner by orcs. In Mordor.”

Frodo blinked, aghast. “How was he able to escape?” he asked, and Bilbo also looked at Gandalf curiously.

Gandalf shook his head. “I fear he did not.”

“What?” the Bagginses chorused.

“I do not believe he escaped. I assume he was released.”

“But why? And how had he been captured in the first place?”

“Sauron wanted information about the Ring. I am unsure how he had known to search for Gollum, but I have a suspicion that the Dark Lord had been able to feel the taint of the awakening Ring, so he had had its bearer captured. Regardless of the reason, however, this is very bad news indeed. Gollum had known of Bilbo’s name as well as the Shire, he had said as much after falling into our custody, and I fear that the One Ring’s location is no longer a secret. As for why Gollum was released, I admit I am not entirely certain, though since Sauron is aware how the corrupted creature covets the Ring, it does not bode well.”

Frodo could hardly breathe. “Sauron – the Dark Lord – knows we have the One Ring?” he asked in strangled disbelief. 

Gandalf nodded sombrely. “Possibly so.” 

“Yvanna,” Bilbo breathed, shaking his head. “You haven’t said they would know to come to the Shire,” he muttered, pinning the wizard with an accusing glare.

Gandalf ignored the look. “So, you see, it is imperative for the Ring to be taken away from here. Bilbo is also in grave danger, and it would be best if he left as soon as possible. And in truth, you, young Frodo, are also no longer safe here either, bearing the Baggins name.”

“So, you would have the both of us leave Bag End, no matter who takes the Ring?” Frodo asked.

“Indeed. It would also be wise to take different routes to Rivendell, as added security. Once there, the elves can protect you.”

Frodo nodded reluctantly. He could see the logic in that. However… “Why can’t you take the Ring yourself?”

Gandalf narrowed his eyes and glanced away. “The Ring is powerful, more so in the hands of one such as I. Can you imagine? I could do much good with it. I could end all wars and bring lasting peace to all the free people of Middle Earth. Or,” he gritted out, wistful tone turning deadly, “I could destroy the whole of Arda with nary a thought. The Ring corrupts even the best of intentions, its evil hides in plain sight, masquerading as a mere tool. I do not know if I could be strong enough to resist the lure, despite being aware of its vices.”

Frodo gazed at the old wizard with hooded eyes. Jealous as he was of his magic, with great power came great responsibility. If for nothing else, Frodo respected Gandalf for his steadfast refusal to abuse such a gift. He nodded slowly in understanding.

“Bilbo goes with you,” Frodo said, tone brooking no argument.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow but nodded.

“Frodo,” Bilbo snapped at the same time, tone indignant. “Do I get no say in this?”

“No,” Frodo replied blandly, glancing at the hobbit with a smirk, then turning back to Gandalf. “I will be taking the Ring. I do not know the way to Rivendell, however. We have maps, but I don’t think taking the main roads would be a smart idea, and since I’ve never before travelled further than Bree, I am likely to get lost. Do you know of any guides that could escort me? Part of the way, if nothing else?”

Gandalf hummed in thought. “I may have just the person,” he murmured after a moment of silence. “If we can get a head start with Bilbo and make it to Bree by tomorrow night, I should be able to secure the help of a friend as long as he hadn’t left these parts yet. A ranger from the north.”

Frodo nodded. He turned to Bilbo, who had been sputtering beside him at being ignored, and Frodo tugged on the chain of his pocket watch, glancing at it when it slipped free of the hobbit’s waistcoat. “With your carriage, it shouldn’t be a problem. You can probably make it to Crickhollow tonight; you still have hours till twilight. I can pack up today and set out early on the morrow. It will take me a few days to get to the Bree on foot. Maybe I can meet this ranger at the Prancing Pony?"

Gandalf inclined his head. He turned to Bilbo, sighing as he met the annoyed glare. “What do you think, my friend?” he asked, if only to placate the fuming hobbit.

“No!” he snapped. “Who is this ranger you speak of? And besides, there was no mention of Frodo being forced to leave!”

“Bilbo,” Frodo interrupted, shooting Bilbo a small smile, “you know I would have left with you, regardless. Bag End isn’t really my home without you in it. Wherever you decide to go, I’ll follow, uncle.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, a wet sheen clouding them as he stared at his nephew speechlessly. “Little ‘Bit…” he breathed.

Frodo grinned. “I am not that easy to get rid of,” he said. “We will just be separated for a little while, yes? I’m sure that ranger fellow will take good care of me. We’ll meet up at Rivendell in a few weeks at the most. Besides, I thought you’ve been itching to show me that famed library of Lord Elrond’s?”

Bilbo bowed his head. “Yes, I suppose I have…”

“And no need to worry about my ranger,” Gandalf cut in, “I would trust him with my life. He is a good man, and more than capable of protecting young Frodo.”

Frodo wanted to scoff, but he did realize they were nasties out there that he simply couldn’t protect himself from. Not without magic. Embarrassing as it was, he really would need a bodyguard, at least until he got a feel for the land. And then, there was that small detail of a Dark Lord who would be chasing after him. Rather dangerous, that. Frodo would know. Voldemort or Sauron; same difference, really. 

“What say you, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked again. 

The hobbit slumped in his seat. “Very well,” he muttered. “I’ll go ahead with you, Gandalf. But I still don’t like it!” he snapped. “I just can’t think of a better solution.”

Gandalf sighed. “Me neither, old friend.”

Frodo smiled thinly. He apparently had some packing to do. And a ring to dig up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: Please review?


	5. Of Barmen and Rangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey All,
> 
> Updated at last! Didn't mean to keep you waiting so long. :( I've actually just started a new job (I now officially make a living of writing! Yay!) so updates will not come as fast as they did in the beginning. I had a lot of free time in-between jobs, which is when I had that writing/editing/posting spree before. But I only have to edit and post, so it shouldn't be longer than a week or so in-between updates :)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 5

Bilbo and Gandalf left less than half an hour later. Frodo had waited until they were out of sight before walking around the smial and heading for the tool shed, grabbing a shovel and trekking down Bagshot Row, through the field and into the sparse woods. He trudged up to the largest, gnarled chestnut tree, and started digging. It took him a while to find the small box he had hidden there all those years ago, but his shovel eventually turned the object over. It tumbled out of a heap of dirt Frodo had just dug out and had deposited beside the tree carelessly. 

Frodo didn’t waste any more time, nor did he bother to cover the random holes. He grabbed the object, stuffed it into his pocket, and hurried back to Bag End. Locking the door and pulling the blinds over every window, Frodo sat down on his bed and placed the box on his lap. 

He wasn’t at all sure about opening it. What if the Ring started affecting him as well, like it had with Bilbo? Would Frodo realize it? Gandalf’s fear of the Ring managed to terrify him more than any empty words of warning ever could have. After all, if Gandalf the Grey couldn’t handle this, then who could? Surely not an old, useless squib in the body of a tiny hobbit barely out of his tweens, with a penchant to land himself in the most outlandish of trouble besides?

The adrenalin fueled confidence from the hour prior had long since deserted him, and Frodo stroked a trembling finger over the plain, metal lid. The whole situation was finally catching up with him, the reality of it sinking in. Fine tremors ran through his whole body as he dragged the finger over the opening, glassy stare fixed on the latch. Finally, Frodo’s face scrunched up into an expression of helpless disgust and he grabbed the box, hurling it across the room with an enraged cry. He drew his knees up against his chest and buried his face between them, angry tears soaking his trousers.

Damn it all.

He would have to go through with this. He had no choice, even though he really wanted nothing to do with the whole mess. How about letting someone else run off to play cat and mouse with immortal dark lords for a change? But he could not let that happen. It was not a question of his ‘saving people thing’ at all – Frodo was rather certain he had outgrown that for the most part at some point – no, this was about Bilbo and his stupid, selfless need to help anyone he came across, and to go along with Gandalf’s schemes. If Frodo refused to embark on this harebrained mission, Bilbo would suffer for it. So what else was there to do? 

Frodo needed to be stronger than this. He could not afford a breakdown, not now. It had simply been a while since the last pile of crap Fate had thrown at him, so he had not been prepared. Took him by surprise, so to speak. But Frodo could do this. He could be strong because he needed to be strong. That was all there was to it.

With a deep breath, Frodo pushed himself into a standing position. He had to pack.

#

Frodo could hardly sleep that night. He tossed and turned until the sky began to lighten into a soft, fiery pink color, then gave up further sleep as a lost cause and dragged himself out of bed. He ate breakfast and, having learned from Bilbo’s mistake, penned a few letters to Sammy, Merry, Pippin, Halfast, dear old Lobelia, and to The Thain himself, telling them that he and Bilbo would be away for an unspecified amount of time, and would they _please_ not auction their possessions off? He explained the situation in a bit more detail to his friends, of course, but he dared not reveal too much, lest the note end up in the wrong hands.

Once he had nothing left to stall his departure with, Frodo washed up and donned sturdy clothes with a traveling cloak on top. He picked his bag up, tied Bilbo’s elven sword, Sting to his belt – not that he could wield it – and stopped, staring rigidly at the little metal box in the corner of his bedroom, precisely where it had landed after Frodo’s outburst the day previous. He had avoided looking in that direction with pointed stubbornness while preparing for the journey, but he could not ignore the heart of the problem forever, now could he?

Scowling, Frodo marched over to grab hold of the box. He looked at it, contemplating for a moment while gripping it hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and in the end, he decided that he would carry the Ring just as it was; locked away. Frodo never wanted to touch the thing and would avoid direct contact with it altogether if at all possible. 

That decided, Frodo tilted his head in thought. He should find a better place to store it than his pocket, right? Much too easily stolen or lost. Snapping his fingers as an idea came to him, he walked into Bilbo’s study, riffling through the drawers below the desk in search of some kind of pouch. When Frodo found one, a sturdy leather purse with drawstrings, he shoved the box into it, tied the strings and hung it around his neck, tucking it under his shirt.

He was ready.

#

It was a beautiful, sunny day in the Shire when he set out, not befitting the occasion at all. Frodo marched towards Bree without taking much note of the passing time, preoccupied with his grim thoughts. He hoped Bilbo and Gandalf would arrive at Rivendell unharmed. The wizard was more than adequate protection, so Bilbo should be fine, shouldn’t he? Even if he was a bit too old for all this excitement. Besides, they had the carriage, so they could travel in relative comfort most of the way. That should suit the hobbit fine. Frodo hoped he himself would also make it in one piece, though about that, he had his doubts.

Other than Frodo’s constant, wayward thoughts and nightmares of all the potential, gruesome ways his quest could be cut short, the trip to Bree was mercifully uneventful. He made good time, passing the tall, wrought iron gate well before sunset of the fourth day, with hours to spare. Making his way to the Prancing Pony, the local establishment that catered to the needs of hobbits and men alike, Frodo walked inside and stepped up to the bar. It was still quite early, so more than half the tables were free, the conversations just a dull murmur in the background. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” Frodo said to the bored looking innkeeper. He was one of Ilúvatar’s, a tall, brutish man with a bulging stomach and unbecoming features riddled by pockmarks. “I wish to rent a room for the night.”

The man leaned over the bar table and leered at him. “Right, laddie. Hobbit size, eh? Single bed?”

Frodo shifted uncomfortably but nodded. “If you would.”

“Sure I would,” the man answered with an ugly smirk. Frodo decided he didn’t like him. The Prancing Pony had a pretty good reputation in the Shire based on the supposedly decent service and nice selection of spirits, yet Frodo found himself disappointed. He was already considering simply turning on his heels to walk away and try his luck elsewhere, and he hadn’t even spent five minutes inside. The innkeeper was making him wary; he kept staring at Frodo just so, beady eyes rowing over him, only to come to a confused, abrupt halt after catching sight of his small, bare feet. Frodo resisted the urge to lash out in a most impolite manner, but he did narrow his eyes into a glare. 

“Is there a problem?” he gritted out.

After some last second ogling for good measure, the innkeeper turned his attention back to Frodo’s face.

“Nah. Just never seen a soul quite like ya, is all,” he said, shrugging. “Hobbits turn up off’n enough, but, ya do look different, even without them feet,” he clarified that statement by pointing at said appendages, in case Frodo had trouble understanding. “Not quite round enough, if ya know wha’ I mean?” He finished that thought with a wink.

Frodo blinked in honest surprise. Did this man not possess a shred of decency? Any manners at all? He had not even seemed to realize he was being rude! It was almost funny. Frodo was at a total loss about how to react to something like that. The hobbits of the Shire at least had the good sense to insult him politely. It would have been quite improper otherwise after all. Ever since arriving in this world, Frodo had come to expect that the behavior of the hobbits – all good manners and sweet, false smiles – was the standard in Middle Earth… Apparently not. But it has rubbed off on Frodo, at least, because he felt appropriately scandalized by the lack of decorum.

In the end, Frodo heaved a sigh and shook his head. “A room, if you would be so kind?” he prompted, trying to get the man back on track.

“Ah, aye, aye. Just a mo’, Gotta get the wife.” The last was said with a bit of a groan, before he lumbered off to nudge a door behind the counter open. Frodo presumed it led to the kitchen. “Woman! Com’ere and take care of the bar! I hav’ta escort Mister – ”

“Gamgee. Bodo Gamgee,” Frodo blurted without skipping a beat. Better safe than sorry.

“ – Mister Gamgee here to his room.”

An annoyed female voice replied something scathing from behind the door that Frodo did not quite catch, and the innkeeper flapped a hand toward the end of the room, where a staircase could barely be seen in the dim light and thick pipe smoke. Wanting to avoid the ogling gaze, Frodo waited for the man to walk ahead and trailed after him in silence, ignoring the other guests they passed. They climbed the stairs, the innkeeper huffing and puffing as if he had run a marathon, even though their destination was no further than the first landing. The key chain tied to his belt kept clinking with each of his steps. Making their way down the corridor, they passed a number of closed doors on both sides, not stopping until near the end. The innkeeper fiddled around with the keys by his hip until he managed to dislodge the correct fit with which to unlock the door, and waved Frodo inside after pushing it wide open.

“Dinner from six, breakfast from seven in the mornin’. I can have them meals delivered up here for a lil’ bit of extra. Can have a bath drawn for ya, too.”  
Frodo nodded, taking the key from the man, trying to avoid touching him.

“I’ll take the bath, thank you,” Frodo said. When the man didn’t turn to leave, he added, “Good day.”

With a last narrow-eyed leer, the innkeeper lumbered off, slamming the door behind him. Frodo let out a sigh of relief and rubbed his forehead with a shudder. Trying to shrug the slimy feeling off, he deposited his backpack by the foot of the bed, peeled off his traveling robe, and collapsed onto the mattress to wait. 

It did not take long for a gangly man-child to turn up with a knock on the door, and he dragged a small, shallow tub into the room. A maid, or perhaps the innkeeper’s wife, helped fill it with a few bucketfuls of hot water and draped a folded towel over the rim. After they were gone, Frodo sank into the tub with a grateful sigh. It wasn’t all that comfortable, cramped even by hobbit standards, but it was nice and warm; a balm to his sore muscles after a long, stressful day of travel. Frodo was not looking forward to having to get by without this luxury during most of his trip. Cold spring water – provided he was particularly lucky – could only go so far getting a weary traveler clean. Frodo was already dreading the stickiness and stink. Well, not much for it. He would enjoy the hot water while it lasted. Closing his eyes, Frodo slid deeper down to soak, not moving until the water began to cool.

After toweling himself dry, he dressed, deciding after a moment of contemplation to fish out his sturdy pair of boots from the backpack for tomorrow. Despite having grown used to going barefoot most of the year, only wearing shoes in the harshest winter months, Frodo knew that it would serve him better to have some extra protection over his soles, even if it felt a bit uncomfortable in the beginning. His skin was nowhere near as hardy as an actual hobbit’s, though he had managed to build up some impressive calluses over the years. Those were, however, not really adequate to withstand some of the more difficult terrains he may come across.

Besides, the less space taken up by clothing in his bag, the more food he could pack for times of need. Frodo may not have required the ridiculous amount of sustenance hobbits gobbled down on a daily basis, but still, it was important to have a few nutritious bites stowed away in case he would be unable to find anything on the road. He would stop by the market tomorrow morning on his way out of Bree and buy as much dried fruits and nuts as he could carry.

Having arranged everything to his satisfaction, Frodo nodded to himself and headed downstairs for dinner. It was time to see if Gandalf’s mysterious friend had arrived yet. 

#

When Frodo had asked about the guide Gandalf had promised to arrange for him, the wizard had told him not to worry about recognizing the ranger, as he would be the one to approach Frodo. So not knowing what he was looking for, Frodo scanned the now crowded inn aimlessly. Not finding anyone with an obvious ’Gandalf’s Ranger’ spelled out on their forehead, he shrugged and tried to find a place to sit instead. He was quite hungry, and he didn’t fancy the prospect of eating by the bar, within direct view of the disgusting man. He would rather stand, if he had to.

Frodo found a seat in a corner by a two-seater table, and although one of the chairs was occupied, the man in it smelled pretty drunk and was snoring away quite merrily besides. Frodo settled in without making a sound, trying not to disturb the table upon which the large, bearded head rested. He would rather avoid waking and angering the person.

It did not take long for a barmaid, a buxom, brown-haired woman he hadn’t seen before, to saunter up to him and ask for his order. Frodo requested a plate of whatever food they served that night with a pint of ale. He received his meal fast enough, and he dipped his spoon into some sort of thick, greasy soup served with a few slices of white bread. Not all that appetizing but filling enough. At least the bread was fresh.

Frodo was nearly done eating when he noticed a large pair of boots stepping up next to him. The spoon froze mid-air before reaching the bowl, and Frodo glanced up with wary curiosity, only to find himself face-to-face with a haggard looking man, dressed in a worn leather tunic with lightweight armor underneath, a sword dangling by his side. He had shaggy, dark hair that covered most of his face, while the rest had stubble growing all over. Piercing, brown eyes met Frodo’s acidic green ones. 

Frodo shrunk back a bit in involuntary reflex, but the man averted his scrutinizing stare to turn to the other occupant of the table.

The stranger nudged the drunken man’s chair with a foot, causing the poor sod to shoot up and nearly topple over in fright.

“Wha-?!”

“Excuse me,” said the dangerous looking stranger in a quiet, cultured voice. “I don’t suppose you’d mind?” he asked, yet evidently expected no protest, gesturing for the drunk to leave.

The confounded man opened his mouth to retort indignantly, before finding himself caught in the piercing, dark gaze. He then snapped it shut rather fast. “Wanted ta leave anyways,” he slurred.

“Thank you.”

The stranger waited for him to stagger away with calm patience, then slid into the empty seat. Frodo blinked at him in mild disbelief. 

After studying Frodo for a few moments, the man finally nodded in greeting. 

“I am called Strider, Master hobbit. I have heard you were in need of a guide.”

Frodo’s eyes widened. “Ah! You’re Gand-“

“Hush!” the ranger snapped. 

Frodo winced. “Sorry.”

“We must remain cautious,” he said quietly, leaning forward. “Do you have a room to retire to? Perhaps we could talk there.”

Pushing a nagging sense of apprehension away and nodding, Frodo slid his bowl to the side, took a last sip of his ale, and stood. “Follow me please, Master Strider.”

“Strider.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just call me Strider,” he clarified.

Frodo inclined his head in understanding, barely refraining from blurting out his own name to return the courtesy. Damn hobbitly manners. As he weaved his way through the crowd, heading for the stairs, Frodo’s back broke out in goose bumps induced by a creeping sense of awareness. Looking to the side, he found the innkeeper watching him. Frodo shuddered, quickening his steps, all but running to the stairs. Strider followed without comment. Once they reached the room, Frodo went ahead and watched Strider duck in after him. After stepping inside, the man had to remain hunched over to avoid banging his head on the ceiling. His tall frame filled the small space uncomfortably, like Gandalf used to whenever he visited Bag End.

“Please, sit down,” Frodo said, pointing at the bed. He would have offered the chair by the dresser, but the man wouldn’t have fit in it. As it was, he took it instead. 

After getting situated, the two eyed each other for a moment.

“I am Frodo.” The abrupt offering seemed to have broken the ice, because Strider sent Frodo a crooked grin. “Frodo Baggins. And please, call me Frodo.”

“Frodo, then. Gandalf has talked about you a bit.”

Frodo bit his lip. “Has he?” 

Strider shrugged. “Just enough for me to be able to recognize you. That, and anything relevant to our mission.”

“Oh.” Frodo rubbed his thighs, trying not to act awkward. “So, you know everything?”

“Certainly not!” Strider said with a quirk of his lips. “If, however, you meant to ask whether I am aware of the specifics of this mission, then yes, I am.” His smile disappeared, gaze dropping to Frodo’s chest, where a lump could be seen under his shirt. “I know what it is you carry.”

Frodo shuddered. He wanted to avoid thinking about that little detail. The string around his neck felt like it was tightening akin a noose, and his hand shot up to tug at it without conscious thought. Strider’s eyes followed the movement, expression dark. When Frodo noticed the direction of Strider’s gaze, he reddened and dropped the string, swallowing back bile.

“It is a heavy weight you carry, young Frodo,” Strider said in a soft tone when Frodo just sat there with downcast eyes. “Feel not ashamed. All free peoples owe you a debt for your courage to stand against such evil.”

Frodo shrugged. “It’s not really that big of a deal, right? I am just handing it off to someone else to deal with, so… Anyway, I am just doing this because I don’t have a choice, you know?”

Strider inclined his head in understanding. “Understood. You will, however, have to excuse me, and allow me to continue holding your courage in high esteem, despite your valiant effort to refute such a claim. As mature adults, we can surely respect each other’s differing opinions,” he retorted with a grin.

Frodo flushed but smiled back, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. The ranger, in spite of his rather unkempt appearance, was proving to be a well-mannered, clever and soft-spoken man, the exact opposite of the ruffian Frodo expected when they had met. Never judge a book by its cover, he reminded himself. 

“So… How do we do this? How do we get to Rivendell?”

Strider sighed. “If we took the main road, we could make it there in less than a fortnight. However…”

“That would be a bad idea,” Frodo finished the thought.

“Yes, it could put us in a lot of danger if we were to get spotted. Although there have been no reports about suspicious activities in the West as of yet, but I have heard rumors from yonder. They worry me greatly.”

“What rumors?”

“People whisper of ghostly riders appearing in the darkness, faces cloaked in shadows and reeking of putrid death. The Black Riders seem to have been called forth again.”

The hair on Frodo’s neck stood on end. “Black Riders?”

“Nazgúl,” Strider said grimly. “They used to be men, once. There are nine, and they had been great kings. As the rulers of their lands and the keepers of peace, they’ve been gifted rings of power forged by the elves. Wen Sauron’s treachery had been revealed and his corruption spread, the kings had fallen prey to the Dark Lord’s evil and their own greed. Eventually, they have become what they are today; mere wraiths consumed by hatred and malice. They care about nothing but the Ring. They covet it, long for it, hunt it…”

Frodo shuddered. “And you believe that they’re coming after the Ring? To the Shire?” he asked, horrified.

“It is likely to be so, yes.” Seeing Frodo’s paling face, he added, “However, they are unlikely to harm the Shire folk. They can feel the presence of the Ring. Once they realize it is not here, they will leave. I am sure of it.”

This did not calm Frodo at all, but he could see the logic in what Strider was saying. At the very least, he could hope the prediction held true. Hobbits were peaceful by nature. How were they supposed to fight against something like a Nazgúl? They didn’t even have weapons! The only warriors around, if they could be called that, were the Shirriffs and the occasional ranger patrolling the borders.

“So they will be after us.”

“Yes.”

“But,” Frodo started to question with a hint of doubt, “how can you be sure these Dark Riders are really around? People like to spin tales and are prone to exaggeration. Besides, the truth can be lost by the second or third retelling.” One did not live amongst hobbits for thirty plus years without learning the Rules of Gossip. “Besides, as high as the chance is of it being the One Ring that we are dealing with, there is still the possibility, no matter how infinitesimal, that Gandalf is wrong about it.”

Strider shot him a considering look and smiled. “True enough, Frodo. It would be unwise of us to jump to hasty conclusions. But,” he said, “in this case, caution cannot harm us, even if it really did turn out to be unwarranted. Yet if the reverse were to happen, and we carelessly disregarded the danger, it could mean the deaths of thousands, the least of which would be our own. I think, in this particular case, it is best to expect the worst and be grateful if proven wrong, don’t you think?”

Frodo had to concede the point.

“And now, we should retire for the night. It is getting late and we should aim to set out as early as we can. If possible, even before dawn.”

“But I still haven’t paid for the room.”

“You can leave the gold. As far as I saw, you would rather avoid that barman anyway.”

Frodo’s face scrunched up, and the ranger watched in understanding. “The man is known to have rather… unsavory tastes,” he said. “It is just as well you avoid him.”

“Unsavory tastes?”

Strider grimaced in disgust. “He likes to… get extremely rough with young boys. And I mean no offense, but with your stature and slight build I would hazard a guess that the man would be quite taken with you, despite your maturity.” 

Cringing, Frodo looked away, not knowing what to say to that. What a sick person, to hurt children.

Clearing his throat, Strider broke the awkward silence that had descended. “Please forgive me. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Frodo shook his head. “No, it’s alright. It is better to know, anyway.”

“Indeed,” Strider murmured. After a moment, he stood. “Well then, Frodo, let us rest. From here on out, our accommodations will not be as comfortable, so enjoy it while it lasts.”

Frodo nodded while Strider approached the door.

“Lock the door for the night. I shall come to get you when it is time to leave.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said. 

Strider smiled and nodded as he ducked outside.

“No, I mean it. Thank you. For everything.” Frodo bit his lip. “I truly don’t think I could do this alone.”

Strider bent a bit, so as to better catch Frodo’s eyes. “And neither should you have to, brave one. I am most glad to offer my assistance.”

Frodo blushed, and Strider laughed quietly. “Good night, master hobbit,” he said, and Frodo appreciated that the man refrained from mentioning his name in the open.

“Good night,” he murmured in return.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review?


	6. Of Rediscovered Abilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!

Chapter 6

Much to Frodo’s surprise, he had been dead to the world as soon as his head had hit the pillow following the ranger’s departure the night before, and he only jerked awake when he heard a few soft knocks on the door. Blinking at the ceiling owlishly, he sprung into sudden action once he heard the knock again. Jumping out of bed, he hurried over to let Strider inside, tripping on something once or twice in the darkness, but in the end successfully yanking the door open. The ranger looked taken aback for a split second, but then he smiled at Frodo in greeting.

“Good morning, master hobbit.”

“And good morning to you as well,” Frodo croaked, ushering the man inside. “I’m very sorry, I seem to have overslept. I’ll only be a few moments.”

Strider waved his hand. “No need to rush. Dawn is still about an hour away.”

Frodo sighed in relief and nodded. He quickly made up his bed and gestured for Strider to take a seat while he got himself ready. Frodo flushed a bit when he realized he was only wearing his small clothes and jerked a proper tunic over his head as fast as he was able to.

While he packed and dressed properly, Frodo remembered to question the ranger about his plans. “Strider,” he began, “do you reckon we could buy some food somewhere this early? I planned to fill my pack with non-perishables, you see, for times we may not have anything else to eat.”

Strider hummed. “I have some rations for us, and I should be able to hunt on the way, although more food would certainly not go amiss. I am, however, unsure whether the market stalls will be open yet. We can pass them by on our way out. It is not that much of a detour.”

“Alright,” Frodo said, now eyeing his boots in distaste. He hated wearing them when the weather was warm. With a resigned sigh, he bent down to retrieve them. He sat down in the chair, pulling on a pair of socks before stuffing his feet into the infernal things, already dreading the sweaty, uncomfortable feeling.

Strider watched the byplay in thinly veiled interest. Noticing the attention, Frodo grumpily told him, “My feet are not sturdy enough to go without protection long term, especially on rocky terrains. The grassland and dirt roads are fine, but I may injure myself elsewhere.”

Strider tilted his head in thought. “You find shoes uncomfortable though? Forgive me for saying so, I mean no offence, but your feet are rather different from what I would expect to see on other hobbits.”

Frodo shrugged uncomfortably, lacing his boots with jerky movements. “I’m not really a hobbit, only half, according to my parents. They found me when I was a faunt, you see. If the townsfolk are to be believed, I’m no hobbit at all,” he grumbled.

“Not a hobbit?”

Frodo hummed in affirmation. “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, for one, is of the well-founded, evidence-based opinion that I am an evil spirit, possibly a goblin, being punished by the Valar by having to live in a most unnatural body, doomed to be an outcast till the end of all time.” Frodo rolled his eyes and snorted. “I honestly admire her creativity.”

Strider’s expression darkened. “The small-minded are not known for taking kindly to differences,” he murmured.

Frodo just shrugged again. “So, what route are you planning to take us on?” he asked, if only to change the subject.

Strider didn’t appear to mind at all, following the new thread of conversation, the transition seamless. “We are circling around the Weather Hills and bypassing the Trollshaws from up North.”

Frodo whistled. “That’s some detour,” he remarked faintly, thinking of the maps he had seen. “That will delay us by at least a week, yes?”

Strider inclined his head. “It will. It is a sure way to avoid detection though, and if the Black Riders are indeed headed for the Shire, they will take the routes further South.”

Frodo groaned. “Well, at least we avoid the Trollshaws,” he muttered.

Strider raised an inquisitive brow.

“Never mind,” Frodo said, straightening up and putting his cloak on. Strider still looked curious, so Frodo elaborated. “It’s just a place where Bilbo, my uncle, ran into a bit of trouble,” Frodo said. “Trolls.”

Strider’s lip quirked. “You don’t say,” he deadpanned.

Frodo rolled his eyes, swinging his backpack on. “Trolls had supposedly long ago moved to higher lands by that time. Even Gandalf was surprised. Trollshaws or no.”

Strider laughed, standing up as well. “True enough. I still find it amusing,” he said, then added, “No one got hurt, I hope?”

“Well, Bilbo was with a bunch of dwarves at the time, and they did get roasted over the spit for a bit, but no serious harm done,” Frodo explained, recalling Bilbo’s tale with a fond smile.

“That is fortunate.”

“Yes.” Frodo tied Sting to his belt, left a few coins on the dresser – enough to cover his stay – and then looked at Strider expectantly. “I’m ready.”

“Let us be off then.”

It was still mostly dark when they quietly slipped outside, and Frodo was relieved that they indeed managed to avoid meeting the disgusting innkeeper. As they made their way down the cobblestone street, Frodo caught sight of the stables, and immediately turned to question Strider. 

“Are we taking horses?”

The ranger shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We would be forced to let them go not even halfway to Rivendell; they would become more of an inconvenience than anything else. And I don’t have the money, in any case.”

“I could buy them?” Frodo offered cautiously, not wanting to offend, but Strider shook his head. 

“No, it really would not do us much good, and it would be a waste. Keep your gold for more important things, master hobbit. You never know when you might have need of it.”

Frodo nodded placidly, not willing to argue, and still remembering Ron’s temper tantrums regarding money-related issues. His redheaded childhood friend really managed to make an impression with those. However, he did begin to contemplate about what, exactly, the ranger would consider important enough to spend money on, if faster, more comfortable transportation didn’t cut the list.

Bree was still asleep; the streets were deserted, and there were no candlelit windows to indicate the presence of the residents. The only shop that already seemed busy was the bakery, and that, too, was not actually open yet. Frodo and Strider passed the marketplace but noted in resignation that no vendors had their wares out, though a few of them were already pushing carts around. Frodo asked Strider if they could maybe wait a bit, but the ranger shook his head apologetically.

“No sense in standing around. It would be rather conspicuous, and we do not want to call any more attention to ourselves than we already have. Also, I should have enough food to tide us over, so calm your worries,” the man said. “I shan’t let you starve, master hobbit,” he teased.

Frodo reluctantly acquiesced. He consoled himself by deciding that there would be wild berries, fruits and mushrooms to collect by the roadsides anyway, and for free at that. At least he would have something to engage himself with during the long weeks of travel.

#

Strider was an interesting man to be around. 

For one, he was a treasure trove of knowledge. It was fascinating. Frodo may have been alive a great deal longer than Strider, but he had spent the last three decades since arriving on Arda sequestered away in the Shire. He was as naïve to the workings of this world as any other wide-eyed hobbit would be in his place… Well, perhaps he was a bit better off than that, but not by much.

Strider not only had the knowledge, he also had the experience. He had something to contribute to every topic they touched upon, and Frodo found himself learning about subjects he had never even thought to consider before, be those discussions about the properties of some sort of medicinal herb, or tales of obscure legends no one but the elves remembered anymore. Frodo wondered just how Strider had had access to so much information, not to mention how he had made time to accumulate so much knowledge while being a ranger, quite a young one at that, but he didn’t pry. After all, it was hard not to notice that Strider didn’t like to talk about himself. At all. And that was putting it mildly. Very mildly. Anyway, why should Frodo be bothered about a semi-stranger not dishing out his every woe? 

Nope. 

Frodo was obviously not bothered at all.

In any case, Strider was also oddly humble for someone who had so much to share. Frodo realized early on that Strider would rarely offer up an opinion where it wasn’t explicitly asked for. Frodo got the feeling that he would not talk much, if at all, if there was anyone else around to do it in his stead, content to divert attention away from himself. He liked to hang back and listen, and even with just the two of them, he often simply smiled as Frodo prattled on about one thing or another. He was very good at pretending to find what Frodo had to say interesting, too. So good was he at it, in fact, that Frodo often lost his train of thought halfway through a sentence when he noticed the ranger’s intent, concentrated gaze on him.

He had the kind of quiet, dry humour that Frodo could appreciate. It was pretty hilarious when he used it to counter Frodo’s occasional bouts of sarcasm. Or it could be annoying, really, depending on Frodo’s mood at the time. Strider could deliver the most outrageous of responses in such a deadpan way, Frodo sometimes honestly had trouble recognizing the lines for what they were.

“So, let me get this straight,” Frodo was saying after listening to Strider’s latest tale, huffing as he attempted to climb over a tall boulder barring the deathtrap masquerading as a trail, and failing miserably. He just couldn’t seem to lift his foot high enough to find purchase. “The Númenóreans did the dirty work of the Valar, defeating their age-old enemy twice over, with not much in the way of thanks. Then, the Númenórean officials were tricked by, again, the Valar’s enemy – over a long period of time, I may add, before which the Valar also didn’t exactly go out of their way to prove any sort of benevolence – and when a corrupted king led them on a foolish siege he had been goaded into, in retaliation the Númenóreans living their peaceful lives back on their island were all murdered in an epic act of righteous genocide. Hm. Forgive me if I find the Valar hard to sympathise with.”

“The Valar left the decision about the punishment to Eru.”

Frodo snorted. “Even better. They couldn’t have been bothered to deal with the problem themselves, so they gave it a pass and sat back to enjoy the show. Lovely.”

“Indeed it is.”

“…”

“…”

“Strider?”

“Hm?”

“Do you agree or disagree?”

“Yes.”

“… you are so exasperating,” Frodo sighed dramatically, and then gave the stupid rock in front of him the stink-eye.

“Please excuse me.”

Frodo grinned and flapped his hand. “You don’t have to apo– Wha!? Put me down!” he yelped when he was suddenly hoisted up by his waist, scrambling to find purchase on the boulder he was supposed to be climbing. When he was finally able to get a stable grip, he tilted his head and shot a dirty glare behind him. He caught Strider smothering a smirk. Frodo rolled his eyes and decided he would be better off concentrating on climbing.

They had left Bree four days ago and were in the process of fighting their way through the rocky passages at the northern foot of the Weather Hills. Frodo hated it. He kept tripping and cursing and tripping again at various intervals, not to mention the sore muscles and scrapes he had accumulated while being forced to climb up, down, up and then back down again half the time. It was exhausting, and he really just wanted to clear this part of the journey as soon as possible. And damn Strider for being so fit anyway. The man hardly looked ruffled at all.

“We should set up camp soon,” the ranger announced after they both made it to the top of the boulder, and Frodo sighed in relief. “Be on the lookout for a suitable place.”

Frodo nodded eagerly, scanning the rocky outcroppings for a sheltered spot. He didn’t find anything at first glance, so, groaning inwardly, set to inching down towards the continuation of the so-called trail. 

It took them another half an hour at least to come across a shallow hole covered by some jagged rocks. Frodo and Strider slipped inside and found it to be just large enough for the two of them to sleep in, if a bit cramped. Strider shrugged, looking at Frodo in question.

“It is small, but I don’t think we should continue any further today,” he said. “Twilight is upon us, and we don’t have any wood to light a fire with. It would be best to settle in while there is still light to see by.”

“Agreed. I’d rather not risk my neck in the dark. I have trouble keeping it intact in broad daylight already,” Frodo grumbled in embarrassment, adding, “It’s the boots. They will be throwing my balance off until I get used to them.”

Strider’s lip twitched, but he refrained from commenting, thankfully. They peeled off their backpacks, tugged at the fastenings off the bedrolls and unrolled them side-by-side, not that there was space for anything else. The backpacks would serve as pillows. Granted they were lumpy ones, but Frodo was past the point of caring. He just wanted to drink, eat, and sleep, preferably in that order. 

Once they had everything arranged, they sat down side by side, and Strider placed some sort of package wrapped in leaves on his lap. He unwound the wrappings and offered the contents up for Frodo.

“Take some.”

Frodo examined what looked to be like a hardened bar of white, crumbly bread. It didn’t look all that appetizing. Swallowing, he reached out to break some off for himself to eat.

“It is called lembas,” Strider was telling him in the meantime, “elven bread. One does not need more than a few mouthfuls to quench their hunger. This piece should last us days, in case we have need of it. I have more stored away, of course.”

Frodo’s eyes widened in astonished pleasure when he bit into the non-too-inviting slab of bread. Strider chuckled at his expression.

“It may not look like much, but lembas is well-liked by most. Elves rarely make anything less than perfect,” he said with fond exasperation colouring his tone. 

Frodo raised his eyebrows. More and more often, he began to entertain the idea that Strider was somehow connected to the elves. It would make sense. He was obviously not of elven descent himself, but he had to have spent a great deal of time with them, if only to collect all that knowledge he shared with Frodo when wheedled into it, some of which Strider himself admitted could only be found recorded by elves. Frodo was entirely too intrigued for his own good. He had thought he had outgrown this sense of childish curiosity, but obviously, it had simply been buried, waiting for the right subject to poke it into awareness. And curious Frodo definitely was. He couldn’t wait to finally figure this man out.

“Yes, it is very good. Thank you for sharing it with me,” Frodo said, instead of attempting to interrogate the ranger. Asking him personal questions was a sure way to make the man clam up, and Frodo would be forced to spend the whole of the following evening in awkward silence. Yes, best avoid that.

“You are welcome.”

By the time they were done eating and drinking their fill, the sky had begun to darken. Strider and Frodo watched the emerging stars for a while, pointing out constellations they knew – so different from how it used to be in another lifetime – but Frodo was much too tired to stay awake long. He started to nod off, and Strider nudged him softly to lie down. Yawning, Frodo curled up on his bedroll, and he barely heard Strider’s amused chuckle before he was out like a light.

#

Frodo was awoken in what felt like barely an hour. His bloodshot eyes snapped open, trying to take stock of the situation and determine what, exactly, had disturbed him. Strider was still asleep, he could tell by the soft, even breaths produced by the body behind him, the gusts hitting his nape.

Not daring to move, Frodo waited in tense anticipation for whatever he had sensed to reveal itself. It didn’t take long.

“Stupid fleshlings. I’ll show them. I’ll show them! They will pay, they will!” an enraged voice muttered, much too close for comfort. “Taking my home once wasn’t enough, was it? I’ll bite them all to death, I will. Curse the fleshlings! It is my home! Mine!”

Frodo bolted upright, eyes scanning the darkness wildly. He could barely make out anything, the starlight not strong enough to illuminate his surroundings properly.  
As soon as Frodo moved, the voice snapped, “Die!” and Frodo could see something move towards him by the mouth of the cave.

“Wait, stop!” he shouted in panic. “Stop!”

There was absolute silence for a moment, although Frodo felt Strider’s form go rigid beside him. Good. He was awake, then.

“It said to stop,” the voice muttered in confusion.

“Yes, please stop. We are sorry we invaded your home. It wasn’t our intention,” Harry babbled hastily. “Forgive us, we didn’t know that you lived here.”

Silence.

“Frodo,” Strider whispered after a moment. “What is going on? Why are you…”

“What?” 

Strider hesitated. “You were hissing.”

“Hissing?”

“Yes,” Strider repeated, slowly. “Hissing.”

“The fleshling speaks,” the nearby voice whispered in the meantime, curious.

Harry shook his head in confusion. “There is something by the entrance,” he told the ranger, uncertain as to why Strider hadn’t already reacted to the voice. “It was preparing to attack us.”

Strider immediately whipped around, a sharp, dangerous looking hunting knife slipping into his hand, seemingly out of nowhere. 

“No, wait!” Frodo yelped, and felt Strider glance at him, the phantom stare intimidating in the darkness. 

“You dare!” the voice from the cave’s entrance snarled.

“No, we are sorry! We will not attack, I promise,” Frodo attempted to placate, ignoring – with some difficulty – Strider’s weighted gaze. 

Squinting at the form, Frodo tried to make sense of it. A sense of recognition was niggling at the back of his mind, but he shrugged it off. It was impossible after all, right? But then the creature moved closer; a familiar slithering motion solidifying the suspicion in Frodo’s mind. It quickly made its way onto Frodo’s bedroll, and he watched in dawning comprehension as it slithered up to get closer to him.

“A snake,” he breathed with wide eyes.

Strider jerked, by then having turned to watch the approaching animal as well. “A serpent…” he whispered softly, almost disbelievingly.

“Yeah, it was probably out hunting, and we invaded its nest,” Frodo said distractedly, mind reeling. He talked to a snake. Talked. To. A. Snake. He was a parselmouth again, he thought faintly, and wondered, a bit hysterically, whether he was perhaps still dreaming, since, well, he was Talking. To. A. Snake. 

Disregarding the fact that he had lost that ability long ago in his previous life as Harry Potter, the little detail about not having magic anymore should have pretty much made this situation impossible. Parselspeech was a magical ability, wasn’t it? Frodo was certain that it was.

While Frodo was wrestling with his impeding panic attack, the snake had come to a stop, its body a gentle weight upon his legs hidden under the bedroll. Frodo squinted, trying to see better. He could tell that the snake had shimmery, light scales – silver or white, he couldn’t make out which – and that it was not as large as he had initially believed. Perhaps he had been imagining things, blowing the size out of proportion because of the frightful impression the animal had made?

The snake reared up, lifting its torso to get a closer look at Frodo. Although he hadn’t thought it possible, but Strider appeared to tense further beside him, rigid as any other piece of rock.

“You are a fleshling,” the snake decided after a few moments of examination.

Frodo blinked. “I suppose so?”

“But you are also brotherkin.”

Frodo shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, no, not really. At least I don’t think so.”

“You speak,” the snake stated.

“I suppose I do, don’t I?” Frodo muttered, more to himself that to the creature.

“You are kin,” the snake decided, tone bland. 

Frodo honestly had no idea how to answer that.

Strider shifted beside him, finally unfreezing and drawing Frodo’s attention. Tilting his head, he found the silhouette of the ranger staring at him again.

“You speak to it,” Strider observed, and Frodo nodded, a sense of deja vu causing a wry smirk to tug at his lips. Surprisingly, Strider took that in stride – pun intended. Oddly, however, the ranger had a whole different sort issue with the situation that keep him preoccupied, as Frodo soon found out. The man cleared his throat and carefully lowered his knife, though he did not let go of it.

“It is not about to attack, correct?” he asked.

Frodo shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Strider nodded. “Ask what it’s doing here,” he requested urgently. 

Frodo furrowed his brows in confusion but obeyed anyway. “My companion wants to know why you are here.”

“It is my home,” it said, tone dry. Frodo nearly giggled but managed to translate the response with a straight face.

“No, why is it here, in Middle Earth?” Strider clarified impatiently.

Frodo blinked. “Ah, what?”

Strider sighed. “Surely you realize that there have been no serpents to be found since the end of the First Age? They have been gone for thousands of years. And I would much appreciate an explanation as to why this one is here.”

“Gone?” Frodo asked dumbly. 

“Gone.” Strider squinted at him. “Or have you come across any? I assumed you have read about the species, but perhaps you already met snakes before?” he questioned curiously. “Did they teach you their language?”

“Oh, well, no. I haven’t met any.” Come to think about it, he really hadn’t seen so much as a garden snake around the Shire in all the years he had spent there. Odd, how he had never noticed that, although it wasn’t as if he ever specifically looked for them.

Attention back on the serpent, Frodo posed the question. “What my companion meant to ask was how you came to be here at all? He said snakes have all disappeared long ago.”

Forked tongue darting out, the serpent hissed in amusement. “That is true, young one. All who were able have fled the call.”

“What call?”

The snake swayed silently for a few seconds before attempting to answer. “Darkness arrived from the Fair Lands, holding the ability to weave serpentine words that could cloud the minds of my brethen in shadows, twisting, them, controlling them. Many have fallen prey, and some remain enslaved to this day. It is a terrible fate to suffer, and all those that remained free could feel their anguish. Even if they were not already scared of being bewitched, they would have tried to get as far as possible anyway, if only to escape the mindless cries of their tortured kin. I can still feel their suffering,” it said quietly.

Frodo shuddered in apprehension. “I think it is saying that the arrival of the Dark Lord chased all the snakes away. That he had a way to enslave them somehow, so those of them that could have fled.”

Strider wore a look of intense interest and dawning comprehension. “Sauron,” he murmured. “He held the form of a great serpent.”

Frodo nodded, remembering as much from one of the elven legends Strider had told him. 

“How come you have remained here?” he asked the serpent, suddenly wary. It let out a hissy laugh at his suspicious tone, though, and seemed to relax, coils loosening and torso sinking back down. Frodo heard a content sigh as the snake got comfortable on top of him. 

“Warm,” it hissed in satisfaction, ignoring Frodo’s question entirely.

Frowning, Frodo contemplated what to do. He was suspicious of the serpent, even if it no longer seemed to mean them any harm. If serpents could be enslaved by Sauron, how was he to know this one wasn’t? After all, it had remained behind where others have fled; could it be possible it was already caught in Sauron’s web of control? Then again, why would it reveal as much, if it was under such influence? Wouldn’t it have been better to lie about the possible danger it could pose, especially if it meant to trick them and deliver them to the Dark Lord? Obviously, it didn’t want to kill either Strider or Frodo, because it had had more than one chance to bite them, which it hadn’t taken. But did that necessarily make the creature harmless? Honestly, Frodo didn’t even know whether it was actually poisonous, now that he thought on it. He had just assumed. 

Frodo rubbed his forehead to ward off the approaching headache. 

“Frodo?” Strider inquired.

“I just find it suspicious,” he whispered in answer.

The ranger nodded in agreement, eyeing the coiled form. “It would be wise not to trust without proof. I find myself doubtful of this tale. At the least, there is obviously more to tell. Did the serpent give any indication about the reason for its presence? Or tell you how it avoided enslavement?”

Frodo shook his head. “I asked, and it evaded the question.” Or more like ignored it.

Frowning, Strider hummed thoughtfully. “There is not much we can do about it now. I could kill it, but–“

“No!” Frodo snapped, and then promptly flushed. “Sorry. I mean, no, you shouldn’t. It didn’t hurt either of us. At least not yet.”

“Indeed,” Strider murmured, and Frodo heard the smile in his voice. “We shall consider the matter further once we have rested,” he said, and slid down to lie on his back. “We must sleep now if we are to continue our journey early on the morrow.”

As Frodo hunkered down, ignoring the annoyed hisses of their new serpentine campmate for fidgeting so much, he couldn’t hold back the hopeful smile forming on his face. Despite the confusing situation and the possible source of danger snoozing away on his lap, Frodo had received a priceless gift; magic. He had magic. He did not know how or why – he could actually still feel the gaping emptiness where his magical core had once been – but somehow, magic hadn’t left him. He may not be able to feel it, or use it, but the fact that it was present at all filled Frodo with such euphoria, he felt like bursting with it.

That night, he fell asleep with a peaceful, happy smile on his lips.

_He had magic._


	7. Of Unexpected Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand an update!

Chapter 7

Upon waking, Frodo found himself face-to-face with an unblinking pair of reptilian eyes, his own crossing in attempt to properly focus.

“Too close,” he groaned sleepily.

Hearing a chuckle, he looked to Strider. The man had obviously woken first, and he was watching the scene in amusement. Frodo sighed, attention snapping back to the silvery serpent when a forked tongue tasted his nose. 

“Ugh,” he grumbled, then said to the creature, _“Would you mind?”_

_“I do not know, young one. What is it that you think I would mind?”_

Frodo huffed. _“Just get off me, please,”_ he hissed in exasperation.

With a hissy laugh, the snake slithered off to the side, watching as Frodo sat up and stretched.

“The creature is quite taken with you,” Strider said, lips quirking. “It has been staring at you without having moved an inch since I awoke.”

“How long have you been watching us?” Frodo asked, incredulous.

Strider shrugged. “Half an hour or so,” he said, matter of fact.

Frodo sputtered. “You could have woken me up, too! You do understand that staring at somebody while they sleep is what most people would call creepy, right?”

“Do you think I am creepy?”

“…”

Strider nodded his head in serious consideration, but his expression morphed into a smirk soon enough. “It was quite humorous, though.” 

Frodo didn’t deign that worthy of a response. 

_“Young one,”_ the reptile called.

 _“My name is Frodo,”_ he hissed in annoyance.

The serpent blinked. _“What a terrible name,”_ it said.

Frodo shot it a glare, affronted. _“What? No, it’s not! It is a perfectly fine name.”_

 _“It is quite horrid,”_ it stated. _“Plebeian and short. Not even a single sss in it.”_

 _“Oh really. As if calling me young one is better,”_ Frodo retorted icily. He liked his name, thank you very much.

 _“Don’t be ridiculous. Young one is not a name,”_ the snake chided. 

Frodo took a deep breath and prayed for patience.

 _“Well then, what about you? I do suppose yours is oh-so-much better,”_ he said, crawling out of the bedroll and folding it up as tightly as possible. Strider was doing the same, although he continued shooting the hissing duo bemused looks.

_“Sssa’déasss Terthálscilinusss.”_

Frodo stared at the creature blankly. _“I beg your pardon?”_

The serpent harrumphed. _“I am called Sssa’déasss Terthálscilinusss. It means Noblest of Mind.”_

 _“Right,”_ Frodo deadpanned. _“Anyway, did you want something?”_

 _“As a matter of fact, yes I did. I wish to treat with you,”_ it stated formally.

_“Treat with me?”_

_“Indeed. I offer you a pact.”_ The snake reared its head higher. _“I shall grant you my services as a mentor and protector. You will allow me to accompany you and I will guard you to the best of my ability.”_

Frodo gaped. _“You do not even know where I’m headed! And besides, that’s quite big of an assumption, is it not? That I would be willing to take you along?”_

_“I don’t particularly care where we travel. And why would you not have me? I am smart and wise. And my venom is deadly.”_

Frodo snorted. _“Humble, much?”_ he muttered under his breath. Frodo then sighed and addressed Strider. “The serpent wants to travel with us.”

“Why?”

“Uh…” Frodo looked back at the snake to ask, _“What do you want in return?”_

 _“Nothing at the moment,”_ it said nonchalantly. _“I just wish for you to return the favour if ever you find me or our kin in need of your protection.”_

 _“I am not a serpent,”_ he refuted automatically while his brain processed the words. “It wants to travel with me to protect me, and only wants my protection in return,” Frodo informed the ranger, who lifted a doubtful eyebrow. 

“Does it, now? And you should agree to this, why?”

“It is a self-proclaimed genius and terribly dangerous besides,” Frodo said with an eyeroll. 

“I see. I don’t suppose we can say no to that.”

“Right.”

“Well then. Does our new companion have a name?” the man asked the snake and glanced at Frodo to translate.

Frodo grimaced and prompted the creature, _“Uh, excuse me, but what were you called again?”_

_“Sssa’déasss Terthálscilinusss.”_

“It’s Sadist,” he informed Strider without missing a beat.

The man cocked his head. “The creature calls himself Sadist?” he inquired blandly.

“Well, technically, it called itself Sadees T-something,” Frodo mused. “And I think it’s a female.”

“I see.” The ranger grabbed his bag and climbed out of their hole, reaching a hand back to help Frodo. 

After lifting his backpack a bit for the ranger to grasp hold of and lift, Frodo tapped his chin thoughtfully. _“I suppose I ought to carry you? How do we go about this?”_ he asked the snake.

 _“Stretch your arm out for me,”_ she commanded imperiously, and Frodo did as he was told. The creature immediately shot out and twined around the limb, climbing higher until she reached his neck. However, as soon as she attempted to drape herself over his nape, she reared up and hissed angrily.

 _“What vile thing is this?”_ she snarled, and Frodo realised she had just come across the pouch he carried. He winced, wondering what to tell her. He did not trust her, so telling the entire truth was out of the question, but he did have to explain where they were headed, at least. It was not as if she wouldn’t find that out on her own anyway.

_“It is something that has been entrusted to me, an evil that I am now taking to Rivendell where it can be destroyed.”_

_“So, is that your destination, then? The elven keep?”_

Frodo hummed in agreement. The serpent, or, well, Sadees, as Frodo decided he was going to call her, remained silent for a few moments, as if weighting the information.

Eventually, her body lost some of its rigidness, and she twirled her body around Frodo’s neck, although she remained very careful to stay as far from the pouch as she could manage.

As Frodo made his way out to join the ranger, Sadees remarked, _“These parts hold no direct route to Imladris.”_

Frodo shrugged. _“We are avoiding any main roads and taking a bit of a detour.”_

 _“You have enemies to avoid?”_ Sadees asked, interest evidently piqued. She sounded downright excited. 

Shrugging again, Frodo said, _“Perhaps,”_ and left it at that. Sadees huffed but stopped prying, although Frodo could hear a disconcerting giggle filled with a childish sort of glee beside his ear. He shuddered and wondered – for what would be the first time of many – whether he had been in his right mind, allowing the reptile to tag along. Alas, there was nothing for it; they were stuck with the odd creature, and who knew? Sadees could turn out to be useful. Maybe. 

If Frodo was a bit doubtful, no one could blame him.

#

The trip towards Rivendell was mercifully uneventful after the incident with Sadees, if long and rather wet. It had begun to rain another week in, about halfway to the Northern border of the Trollshaws, and had not let up until near the end of their journey, the heavy, grey blanket of clouds covering the sky finally breaking up as they approached the bridge over the Bruinen. Needless to say, Frodo was cranky and cold. Sadees did not help matters with her incessant chatter and haughty comments. Strider’s mood also seemed to have fallen a bit, although it was often hard to tell when it came to him. Even in the best of humour, the ranger’s expression rarely changed.

“We should reach the mountain pass leading to the valley before the end of the day,” he said as they broke camp that morning.

Frodo sighed gratefully. “Thank the maker,” he said with a relieved smile.

Strider grinned at him. “Come now, my friend, surely a little bad weather would have posed no problem for a hardy hobbitling such as yourself.”

Frodo scoffed. “Please. I can put up with hellfire if need be, I’ll have you know,” he assured proudly, then continued, tone gaining an edge of despair, “It is the damn beast around my neck that drives me to the brink of madness.”

Strider grinned.

“Surely, she cannot be that bad. She appears to be cordial enough.”

“You’re just saying that because you can’t understand her. I’m quite positive if you heard her mutterings about you, you too would think differently.”

Strider glanced back at them in interest. “Would I?” he asked curiously, raising a brow. “I am eager to know what her opinion about me could possibly be. We are hardly able to communicate.”

Frodo groaned and flushed, thinking about all she had to say about Strider. The serpent evidently liked the ranger, and her comments were occasionally horrifically vulgar. “Believe me, that does not stop her,” he muttered, shooting a glare at Sadees, though she was thankfully dozing at the moment. Small mercies. Perhaps Frodo should enquire about some herb or another that could knock the stupid creature out for most of the day? That would definitely help improve the situation.

“If you say so,” Strider conceded. 

The three set out, and though weary, the prospect of making it to their destination within a day or two went a long way to improve Frodo’s gloomy countenance. They headed to the bridge, having stopped close to the riverbank the day previous, deciding to take cover under the trees there, as there was naught but grassland stretching from the Bruinen to the foot of the Misty Mountains. The old wooden bridge looked sturdy enough when they set foot on it, though the rainwater had made the surface slippery and there was only a thin rope to serve as the railing, to which Frodo clung like a lifeline while inching forward, not letting go until his boots were firmly planted on the ground.

The moment they stepped down onto the muddy trail on the opposing side, Sadees jerked awake, and Frodo jumped in freight when she began hissing in a way he had never heard her do before. She was mindless with rage, her words not distinguishable; no more than a long, howling sound of pure hatred. 

Strider whipped around. “What happened? What is it?” he demanded urgently.

“I don’t know!” Frodo stammered. “She’s not making any sense! She’s just hissing incoherently,” he explained nervously. He didn’t dare reach up to touch her, lest she bite him in her anger, and Frodo could do nothing but stand there like an idiot, not knowing what to do.

 _“Sadees?”_ he called to her tentatively, not wanting to provoke her further. He craned his neck, trying to find an angle from which he could see her. _“Sadees what’s wrong?”_

 _“Ulairi,”_ she spat, and Frodo’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“What?” Strider snapped. “What did she say?”

“I am not sure… I don’t understand the word.”

Strider stepped closer. “What was it?” he demanded.

“Ulairi, I think.”

Strider paled. He whipped around to the West, in the direction Sadees was facing – right of the river – and he slid his sword out of its sheath. 

When Frodo saw Strider’s reaction, he scrambled to get Sting in hand as well. “What?” he asked, heart beating a mile a minute. “What is it?” Obviously, they were in danger, but Sting was not glowing, so it couldn’t have been orcs. Besides, it was daylight. Orcs were unlikely to appear.

“They’re probably close,” Strider said with a grim frown, and glanced back at Frodo. “The Nazgúl. We run.”

Frodo froze. Up until that very moment, he had done his best to distance himself from the true reality of the situation. He was carrying something that may or may not have been the One Ring, he may or may not have been in danger of immortal dark lords hunting his hobbit-sized arse, and Black Riders may or may not have been on the loose. All of it was such an abstract concept, something he didn’t truly grasp. He had almost managed to convince himself that everything was just blown out of proportion, that there was nothing to really worry about. It got him through the days sane, at least. He had been having fun, even, when not miserably wet. Strider was fast becoming someone dear to Frodo, and painful as it was to admit, even the little Sadist was growing on him.

It was bound to blow up in his face at some point.

As Strider cast a last, sharp look down the riverside, Sadees’ hisses gained volume, and the three bolted ahead, Frodo doing his best to keep up with the ranger’s longer stride. It was hard, the man was fast, and Frodo was weighted down by his backpack. He struggled, panting and occasionally glancing back to check if he could see anything in pursuit of them. And indeed, there in the distance, so far off that they appeared no more than ant-sized dots on the horizon, were two dark shapes moving fast in their direction. There seemed to be a third form appearing at times there as well, hidden beyond the cover of the former two, not dark but light. To Frodo, it seemed as if the lighter figure was chasing the other two, but he couldn’t be entirely sure from this distance.

The shapes were gaining on them. No matter how fast Strider and Frodo could run, they were no match for the speed of horses, and the rocky foot of the Misty Mountains was still much too far – miles away, really – to reach for taking cover behind. Their chances of getting away without direct confrontation were bleak, and cold sweat was breaking out on Frodo’s back, even though he knew panic would do him little good. 

“There!” Strider yelled, pointing to a far-off rocky outcropping. “It is the entrance to the underground passage to the valley!”

Frodo’s eyes widened. The tunnel Bilbo had taken with the dwarves! It had to be! 

Gritting his teeth, Frodo pushed himself to run faster, despite the fear clawing at his mind and the stitch forming in his side. Sadees’ hissed curses provided some extra incentive as well, though by then she seemed equally angry about getting bounced around as she was about the riders in the first place. 

They weren’t going to make it. The Nazgúl rode after them, looking like demons ascended straight from hell, and close enough that Frodo caught a glimpse of poisonous, red eyes glinting from underneath their tattered hoods. They wore all black, and if Frodo had to compare them to something, dementors would be the closest he could get. They had a presence about them, a cold vileness that cloaked them in a sense of death and despair. 

The shape behind the monstrous beings, however, was anything but dark. Quite the opposite; the person riding on the beautiful white steed was so light, he almost shone, long blond hair trailing after him and waving like a flag of victory in the wind. He was an elf, he could have been nothing else, and despite the dire situation Frodo couldn’t help but notice the being’s otherworldly beauty. It was the first elf he ever saw in person, and the stories apparently did not do them justice. He was now close enough for their gazes to meet, if only for a single moment, and, even in that stolen, short second amidst the incredible danger they were in, Frodo found it hard to tear his eyes away. 

“Almost!” Strider yelled.

The rocks were closer, but not close enough. As Frodo realised this, so had the elf, apparently, and he drew his sword, urging his mount faster towards the Black Riders. The Nazgúl hardly took note of their pursuer suddenly gaining on them, so intent were they on the small form of their prey. One of them did, however, let out a horrible, loud screech that sounded like nails drawn over a chalkboard, when the elf’s blade bit into the dark thigh of its horse, blade biting deep and slicing all the way down to the hock, wounding the animal deeply and making it stumble, throwing its rider off.

The elf tried not to engage the fallen Wraith, making to ride on and catch up to the other instead, but the downed creature, which was unnaturally tall and skeletal, was fast to reach for the warrior with a clawed hand and managed to snag hold of the elf’s long hair, yanking him off the horse. Frodo did not see what happened next, since the other Wraith, which had not so much as faltered upon the loss of its comrade, continued to pursue the fleeing pair in single-minded determination, forcing Frodo to concentrate on saving his own hide. He could only hope the elf would make it out of the confrontation alive. 

Could the Rider really feel the Ring, Frodo wondered? It certainly seemed so, going by how intent it was on catching Strider and Frodo, even though the Nazgúl pair had been busy with a different foe before coming after them. Did the object call to them? Bewitch them, as it had Bilbo? Frodo shuddered to think about what his uncle could have become, had he not given the Ring to Frodo when he had.

The Wraith came close, too close. It reached out a clawed hand towards Frodo’s nape, Sadees hissing at the appendage threateningly, but just before it could reach him, Strider suddenly yanked Frodo forward, all but making him fly ahead, and propelling him right up to a small opening among the rocks. Frodo stumbled, lost his footing, and practically rolled right into the entrance of the tunnel, barely catching himself in time to prevent tumbling down into it. 

_“Your ranger!”_ Sadees hissed in warning.

Even before the serpent said it though, Frodo had already realised, horrified, that Strider was no longer behind him. Whirling around, he found the man a few feet back, sword in hand and a gash on his right upper arm bleeding profusely. He was standing between Frodo and the Wraith, blade held up threateningly, the black steed under the creature dancing around in agitation.

“Strider!” Frodo cried when the Wraith drew a blade as well, taking a swipe at the man.

Strider ducked, slicing at the Rider’s foot, but only managing to wound the horse’s flank as the blade slid off the metallic shin guard. The beast neighed in pain, stomping at the ground and backing away. The Wraith simply slid off, however, and walked towards Strider, cloak billowing, black, menacing sword held at its side with nonchalant ease. 

“Frodo, go!” Strider ordered urgently as the towering creature attacked again, sword swinging at his neck which he barely managed to parry, and his hands shook with the strain of keeping the other at bay. He jumped back immediately when the Wraith drew back for another strike, bringing his weapon up again, the black blade clanging against Strider’s deafeningly. Strider fell to one knee with the force, sweat beading on his temples. Not letting up this time, the Wraith reached a hand under its cloak, and drew a long, vicious-looking dagger forth.

“No!” Frodo shouted as he watched his friend fall and the enemy pull another weapon forth, his feet starting forward without conscious decision on his part. Clutching the handle of Sting in a vice-like grip, Frodo found himself running at the black figure, and soon bent his knees to kick himself off the ground, flying at the unprotected back of the Wraith. Simply holding Sting out tip first, Frodo aimed it at a spot on the shoulder where he hoped the armour would not cover and stabbed it in without much finesse, letting his momentum do the work, then dropped back down onto the grass with a muted thud.

Well, the manoeuvre was certainly effective as far as drawing the Wraith’s attention off the struggling Strider went. The stab-wound itself, however, didn’t seem to faze it. Turning slowly, the creature fixed his attention upon Frodo’s small form, staring down as if watching a particularly odd bug. 

Frodo could not hear much over the ringing of his own ears as he stood there, paralyzed. He thought he heard shouts from afar, and a hissing, urgent voice closer by, but at that point, he could not have moved if he tried, vision tunnelling, locked on the black blade moving towards him in what appeared to be slow-motion. 

People say that serious injuries don’t hurt initially, that the brain prevents the body from suffering the effects of mortal wounds. Well, Frodo already knew for a fact that this was bullshit. Or maybe it was only him, the lucky one, who got to experience life to the fullest; ranging from basilisk bites to getting Cruciated, he had felt it all. They all hurt like a bitch. He had even had his magic torn from him, and he could honestly say that not one of his injuries had ever hurt as much as that. However, the dagger piercing him came as a close second. 

The Wraith had gone for the heart, but thanks to Sadees’ last minute lunge, the blade was diverted, and slid into Frodo’s flesh right below his collarbone, inch by agonizing inch. Frodo had never felt pain quite like that. It was slimy, evil, it spread through his veins starting by the wound, liquid corruption carried through his whole body, until Frodo knew nothing but pain. Then he was falling, somebody was yelling, and Frodo found himself being grabbed around the waist and hoisted up. He caught sight of white mane and then pale blond hair as his head lolled back to stare at the sky. Would he die, he wondered distantly? He almost welcomed the idea. Anything was better than this kind of pain. Anything. Except… Strider. What about Strider? Was he alive? Had he managed to get away? Frodo wanted to see him, to assure himself his friend would be fine. He had to know, had to be sure. He jerked in an attempt to move his head and look for his ranger, but he could only moan in agony as he was jostled by the rhythmical movements of the white steed underneath him. 

“We must hurry!” someone cried, familiar and welcome. Frodo noted – after a moment of reflection – that it was Strider with profound relief, and it sounded like he was somewhere close, too, not far behind him. “He will not survive for long without help!”

“I know,” said a second voice, deep and rich, and making what Frodo now recognized as a chest he was leaning against vibrate softly. “Asfaloth is an elf-horse. He is fast. Calm your worries; we will get your friend to Lord Elrond in time.”

“We weigh too much together. As soon as we pass the barrier, I will dismount. You must continue on without me to slow your steed.”

The other didn’t answer immediately, but did eventually say, “Very well.”

“Thank you, Glorfindel, for your help,” Strider said in earnest appreciation.

“Hold your thanks for the deserving, Estel, because I have failed in my duty. Lord Elrond had sent out his strongest after receiving word from Mirthrandir about The Nine prowling the land and instructed us to see to the safe arrival of you and your companion. I am deeply ashamed to have failed.”

Frodo rather thought that the elf was being ridiculous, and luckily Strider echoed his thoughts, rebutting, “Without you, we would be dead. Make no mistake.”

“Without me, you would have possibly avoided the confrontation altogether,” the elf growled. He had a pretty voice though. He growled very prettily, Frodo decided, holding back the urge to giggle. “I found five of The Nine down near Eregion and went in chase of them. I lost three by the caves and pursued the other two northwards. If it weren’t for me, they would have gotten here well after you passed.”

Frodo felt like giggling again. So he did, though he was hurting, so he tried to hold back. But it just seemed so funny. Frodo paused thoughtfully. What was funny again? Hm. Well, that was somewhat funny, too.

“He is going into shock,” the pretty voice murmured. “I shall put him to sleep for now.”

Frodo was very much looking forward to that. He wanted a lullaby. That voice would definitely sing a wonderful song. 

Feeling a pinch at his nape, that was the last Frodo knew for some time to come.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!


	8. Of Introductions and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish you all a Merry Christmas!!! XO

# Chapter 8

Upon regaining consciousness, Frodo felt pain. His shoulder hurt. His head hurt. His throat hurt. And, well, it was easier to count the parts that he didn’t feel pain in. His throat produced a high-pitched whine before he could stop it, and Frodo rolled to his uninjured side, curling up into a ball. Yvanna, it hurt. Why did it still hurt? Hadn’t he been treated? He assumed so, since he was evidently still alive.

“Do not do that, master hobbit,” someone called. The voice was quiet and soothing, and Frodo recognised it from somewhere. It didn’t take him long to place it; it was the elf. The one that saved him and Strider… Who was apparently called Estel instead, but Frodo really couldn’t be bothered to deal with that just now. “You will aggravate the wound.”

“Sorry,” he croaked, attempting to command his body to uncurl. It was surprisingly difficult. At least he managed to stretch his legs a bit after some coaxing. Also, Frodo was pretty sure it was about time that he opened his eyes. It was kind of rude to ignore the elf like that, right?

It took some effort, but eventually Frodo pried his lids apart and blinked to clear his vision. He was lying on a large bed, the sheets pure white and softer than any silk Frodo had ever owned. The elf, Glorfindel if memory served, was sitting in a carved high-back chair, and the intense blue gaze was focused entirely on Frodo.

“Good day,” Frodo greeted automatically, and thought he saw a flash of amusement before the expression was wiped clean.

“Good day, master hobbit. It is good to see you awake,” he said.

Frodo stared at him. He really was beautiful. Masculine, yet not in the conventional sense; he was obviously male despite the delicate, smooth features. He had elegant, pointed ears and the lightest pair of ice-blue eyes Frodo had come across since Draco Malfoy himself. There was also something odd, a niggling feeling Frodo had but couldn’t immediately place. It would come to him soon, he was sure.

While Frodo was ogling him, the elf made to stand. “I will go inform Lord Elrond –“

“Wait!” Frodo blurted, and the elf quirked an eyebrow, then settled back into the chair to regard him with interest. “Uh, I… I am Frodo, Frodo Baggins. And, ah, I just wanted to thank you. For saving me. And Strider.”

“Mae govannen, Master Baggins. I am called Glorfindel,” he answered in kind, then said, “I am afraid, however, that your gratitude is wasted upon me, honoured though I am. It is my incompetence that has landed you here, wounded gravely.”

Frodo shot him a tiny, warm smile, trying to ignore the pain. “I find myself doubting that. You neither stabbed me, nor did you make me jump on a Ringwraith like a demented monkey, now did you? It would be quite self-centred of you to take credit where credit isn’t due, no?” he teased.

Glorfindel blinked incredulously, apparently rendered speechless. That was when Frodo realised what had been bothering him.

“What happened to your hair?” he asked curiously.

The elf’s hand jerked up, as if to touch his now rather short, somewhat spiky, silver-blond locks, before catching himself and aborting the movement, straightening his back.

“My vanity had once cost me dearly. Now it has cost you,”*1 he announced, tone formal. “It was about time I learned my lesson.”

Frodo stared, aghast. “You cut your hair because of me?”

“No. I cut my hair because it is not worth the life of a comrade.”

Swallowing back his protests, Frodo nodded. He would not let himself disrespect the elf’s decision. “Then it is a choice to be commended.”

Glorfindel inclined his head in thanks.

“It suits you.”

“Excuse me?” the elf asked in surprise.

“I said it suits you. Though I only saw a glimpse of you before, but I think this length looks very nice on you.”

Clearing his throat, Glorfindel allowed a tiny grin to form on his face. “You are most kind, Master Baggins.”

“Frodo. Please call me Frodo.”

“Frodo.” He nodded and stood. “Now, it would be prudent to inform everyone of your awakening. Estel, Mirthrandir and the elder Master Baggins have been waiting for word about your health anxiously.” He paused. “There is also a most unusual reptile here that has been attempting to sneak into your room since Lord Elrond had had it locked out. Now that you are conscious, and the situation is no longer quite as dire, perhaps you would see to calming it?” he inquired. “Nobody knows how to deal with a serpent, and Estel informed us that you could have this resolved easily enough.”

Frodo groaned. He had nearly forgotten about Sadees. She was going to be so mad…

Then again, Frodo thought with a smile stealing across his features, she deserved all the attention she could possibly want for what she had done. She had managed to save Frodo’s life. He owed her a great debt of thanks for that. Had it not been for her, the blade would have surely pierced his heart.

“Yes, please let her in with my friends,” he said to Glorfindel.

The elf inclined his head while he walked to the door gracefully, and it was only then that Frodo really took note of the room he was in. The place was magnificent; an otherworldly mix of nature and unmatched craftmanship. The walls were covered with delicate vines, both craved and living, and a wooden mural of a beautiful elven maiden governed the far wall. Frodo could feel a breeze caress his skin, so he was certain there was either a window or a balcony behind him, though he didn’t feel up to rolling around and checking quite yet.

He was in Rivendell. They had made it here, at long last. It had been a long journey, but Strider had gotten them here, mostly intact. Frodo was alive, despite the odds. And regardless of the sinister reason for this trip outside the Shire, Frodo had finally gotten to see some of this world. He had made a good friend, possibly even three, and he had the chance to meet elves and discover this wonderful place to his heart’s content. Of course, he ought to get better first, but still. He would be able to explore the Rivendell he had only known from Bilbo’s stories for himself. No matter the looming darkness, Frodo was grateful for the good that came of it.

However, come to think of it, where was the damn Ring? He couldn’t have lost it, right? Trying not to panic, he clenched his teeth and quickly rolled on his back with a moan of pain, and his hand came up to feel around his neck and chest where the pouch should have hung. It wasn’t there. Of course, Frodo did his best to calm himself, that didn’t necessarily mean anything, right? He had been injured, surely the thing was only taken off so as to allow for proper treatment? But what if-

“Frodo, stop!” He heard Strider’s voice, and realized he had been struggling to breathe, eyes clenched shut as panic began to overtake him. “Calm, my friend. All is well.”

“The Ring,” Frodo croaked, near hysterical.

“Fear not, Frodo. The Ring is safe. You have succeeded in getting it here,” Gandalf soothed, and Frodo took a few deep, shaky breaths before opening his eyes again. He looked to his right, to where Glorfindel had sat not long ago and found himself under the scrutiny of three worried faces.

“Hello,” he whispered, relieved to see Gandalf had gotten Bilbo there in one piece. Strider, too, was a welcome sight, although he looked a bit worse for wear. A gash decorated his forehead, appearing deep enough to scar, and his right upper arm was heavily bandaged.

The ranger, noticing Frodo’s attention, hurried to assure, “It is not serious. I have been scratched by the Rider’s claws, but the healers have disinfected the wounds, and I need to keep an eye on the area in case of an infection. Otherwise, I should heal up without problem.”

Frodo nodded. That was good, at least. It could have been much worse.

“And Sadees? Where is she? Glorfindel said she has been agitated.”

Strider grinned mischievously. “She has been terrorizing the elves, actually,” he said in amusement.

“It is an interesting friend you have made,” Bilbo added with a smile, glancing to the side. Frodo followed the direction of his gaze to the nightstand beside his bed.

Sadees had appeared there sometime in the past minute without Frodo noticing, coiled up tightly and staring at him.

“ _Sadees_ ,” Frodo hissed in greeting, happy to see her. The serpent, however, said nothing. Frodo frowned. “ **Sadees**?”

She remained silent and seemed to be glaring at him fixedly.

Frodo cleared his throat. _“I… I just wanted to thank you,_ ” he said quietly. _“You saved my life.”_

Yet still, the snake remained silent. Frodo swallowed. He didn’t understand. This wordless scrutiny was unnerving. Was she angry at him? Disappointed? She was probably having second thoughts about the whole bodyguard pact, not that he could blame her. She surely hadn’t known what she was getting herself into. Truthfully, Frodo himself hadn’t known either. Not really. Now, he had a better idea, but hindsight never much helped anyone. At least it was finally over.

Sighing and not knowing what else he could do to get the serpent to talk, he turned back to the trio, finding Bilbo and Gandalf – especially Gandalf – examining him curiously. Bilbo appeared dazed. As for Strider, he was pretty used to the sight, so he only leaned back in his chair with a calm smile.

“It is quite the ability you possess,” the wizard observed, stroking spidery fingers through his beard. “I’ve never heard of the like amongst the ranks of mortals. There had been a Maia, long ago, who could do something similar...” Gandalf trailed off, then shook his head to dispel whatever thoughts were running through it. “In any case, I find it especially surprising to have come across such an ability now, in this age, since serpents had not been seen for many years, as you surely know. Your Sadees is the first I have come across since my arrival upon these shores, to be precise. Do you, perhaps, have any ideas about how this came to be?”

Frodo started to shrug but hissed when the movement caused a shock of pain to shoot though him. He paused to consider how to go about this. He obviously could not reveal anything pertaining to his life as Harry Potter, but some harmless information about Parseltongue wouldn’t hurt. So, he settled on saying, “I’m unsure how I gained the ability. It feels to me as if I am speaking normal Westron when talking to Sadees. I hardly notice when I switch. Strider, on the other hand, could only ever hear hissing.”

“Interesting,” the wizard said. “And the serpent – Sadees, was it? Can she understand us?”

Frodo shook his head. “Not really. She understands a few basic words, but not a whole lot.” Although, now that Frodo thought about it, Sadees had used an odd word for the Nazgúl, which Strider had understood when Frodo repeated it for him, sans hissing. Perhaps… “I am starting to wonder whether she just knows a different language. There was that name she used for the Nazgúl. Ulairi. And Strider immediately knew what she was talking about when I… uh, translated.”

“Quenya?” Gandalf murmured, while Sadees hissed angrily.

“ _Ulairi_!” she snapped, spitting the word at Frodo. “ _You had the Ulairi after you! What kind of idiotic mess have you gotten yourself into, foolish child?! What have you done to draw the attention of those foul creatures? They hunted you!”_

Frodo licked his lips in apprehension, not sure how to answer her. On the one hand, he was by now certain that she was no agent of Sauron’s. On the other, however, the serpent was keeping secrets he couldn’t begin to guess at. Would revealing the presence of the One Ring be a mistake? No, it should be fine. The Ring was safe now, anyway.

“ _It is a long story,”_ he told her and cut her off when she hissed in angry protest. “ _But I’ll tell you later, okay? I promise.”_

Sadees wasn’t pleased with having to wait, but she did hiss out an annoyed acquiescence.

Bilbo was watching the byplay in fascination. “So, you say this hissing sounds to you like normal Westron?” he asked in curiosity.

Attention drawn back to his uncle, Frodo hummed. “To be honest, I understand it without needing the concepts of a different language to make sense of it. If I wanted to translate it into Sindarin, it would come with the same ease as it does with Westron. I am just more comfortable with Westron, that is why I say communicating with Sadees feels like that.”

“And why do you assume your serpent would understand Quenyan?”

“Well, the word she used was apparently a Quenyan name for the Nazgúl, right? Unique to that language. So it would make sense I would not understand it, even though she used it while speaking in the snake-tongue.”

Gandalf nodded slowly. “I do suppose that would explain it. It is easy enough to test, in any case,” he said and then addressed Sadees in a musical language with a questioning lilt.

The snake harrumphed in haughty annoyance. “ _Tell this Mirthrandir that I do.”_

Frodo did just that. “What did you say to her?” he then asked in interest.

“I introduced myself and asked if she understood.”

“Ah.” Frodo nodded in understanding. “Anyway, as for how she came to be on Middle Earth, I am unsure. We tried to get her to talk during our journey to Rivendell, but she only told us why the rest of her kin had left, not why she has remained. I also doubt she’s a normal snake. I get the feeling she is terribly old.”

The wizard hummed. “Yes, I have known a bit about the exodus of the serpents, which is why I find it curious you have found one here. I cannot sense any evil in her, however, so I suppose she is entitled to her secrets. Perhaps she will be willing to share someday.”

In the meantime, Bilbo had been listening in wide eyed wonder. He was particularly fascinated by the snake-speech. He was something of a linguist after all, and this would prove such a unique research opportunity. Already, there was much to think about in terms of the conventional linguistic concepts, of which many would have to be reworked to fit the apparent workings of the serpent-tongue. For one, the language seemed to work in the reverse; the speaker, Frodo, knew the language first, utilised it instinctively, and learned about the subjects it described afterwards if not already aware of them by means of a different tongue he spoke. That, in and of itself, was enough to write a book about. And then, there was the phonetic aspect to consider, too…

Frodo, recognising the gleam in Bilbo’s eyes, cringed and quickly changed the subject.

“Has the Ring been destroyed yet?” he asked.

All three appeared to be at a loss about how to answer.

“What? What is it?” Frodo asked suspiciously.

It was Strider who finally broke the silence. “The One Ring cannot be easily destroyed. Lord Elrond had it locked away, and it is protected for now. But there is no way we know of to destroy it. No easy one, at least.”

Frodo opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Excuse me?” he asked.

Strider sighed. “Lord Elrond has called for a council meeting. Messengers have been sent to all free peoples, inviting delegates to discuss the issue. The elven representative of the Greenwood is due to arrive by the morrow. The dwarves of Erebor should make it latest by the end of the week. We have not heard from Rohan, but the men of Gondor will also be here soon. The council will decide what to do about the Ring.”

Frodo swallowed in apprehension. He had a bad feeling about this. But, surely the council would be able to deal with the problem? Strider did not say the One Ring was indestructible, only that the elves lacked the means to destroy it.

“How long have I been unconscious?” he finally asked, deciding not to comment on the topic of the Ring. Best ignore it for now. It wasn’t really his business anyway, was it? He had done his part.

“A fortnight,” Strider said.

Frodo’s mouth dropped open. “That long?”

The man nodded grimly. “We were unsure whether you’d make it for the first week. You have been terribly sick,” he said quietly.

“Oh…”

Gandalf leaned forward, placing his elbows on the armrests of his chair and steepling his hands under his chin. “You have been stabbed by a Morgul blade. It has poisoned you. Had Lord Elrond not been able to treat you, you would have faded. The poison of the blades can corrupt anyone and can eventually turn its victims into beings similar to the Wraiths that wield them. Fortunate it is, that Lord Elrond is one of the greatest of healers. You may want to consider thanking him for his efforts toward saving you when you two meet,” the wizard said with a smile, then glanced at the ranger and stood abruptly. “Perhaps we could let Strider explain the rest, Bilbo?”

Bilbo looked confused for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Right, certainly! Yes,” he muttered, getting to his feet. Before turning to follow the wizard though, he stepped up to Frodo, reaching out a hand and running his fingers through his nephew’s dark curls. “Welcome back, Little ‘Bit,” he murmured. “You have been missed. I cannot even say how much.”

Frodo caught the flash of fear and pain as Bilbo stroked his hair, and he reached up, catching the gentle fingers and squeezing them in reassurance. “Worry not, Bilbo. I am not that easy to get rid of,” he murmured, lips quirked.

Bilbo sent him a tremulous smile. “I should hope so,” he murmured, drawing his arm back, but not without a last fond flick to Frodo’s forehead. “Don’t scare me like that again,” he huffed, but despite the teasing tone, he obviously meant the words.

“Understood,” Frodo said with a grin.

After the wizard and hobbit exited the room, Strider heaved a sigh. “He has been crying a lot,” he said quietly, nodding his head at the door. “He was terribly worried. As was I, my friend.”

“I am sorry,” Frodo replied quietly. “I did not mean to worry everyone so.”

“Don’t be. It is I who must apologise,” Strider retorted solemnly. “It was my job to protect you, and I have failed at it rather spectacularly,” he said with an ironical, self-deprecating grin, and Frodo blinked at him owlishly. Strider was the second person that day to have claimed responsibility for his injured state. Frodo didn’t know if he should feel flattered or indignant. He could be responsible for his own damn safety, thank you very much.

While Frodo contemplated how, exactly, to react, so as to display some minimal measure of tact, the ranger stood, staring at Frodo solemnly.

“Strider?”

Before Frodo could inquire further, the ranger clenched his left hand into a tight fist and brought it up to lay it over his heart. Tilting his head down, bowing it solemnly, he said, “Thank you, my friend, for saving me. Thank you for the courage you have shown by coming to my aid. I owe you my life.” He paused, then added, “But had you died, I don’t know that I could have dealt with it.”

“Wha- Hey, wait, hold your horses!” Frodo spluttered, flushing both in embarrassment and annoyance. “Isn’t that a bit much? Of course I would come to your aid! We are friends, and that is what friends do! You do not owe me anything. Besides, you would have done the same, had our positions been reversed,” he said vehemently, and Strider lifted his head, taken aback at the protests. “Not that I’m not flattered,” Frodo hurried to reassure as the ranger stared at him, “but there is no need to… uhm… be so extreme about it,” he muttered, now a bit bashful about his whole outburst.

Strider cocked his head to the side, considering. Just when Frodo started shifting – and consequently wincing – worried that he had managed to offend his friend, a heartbreakingly honest smile broke out on Strider’s face.

“I am proud to call you friend, Berenon*2. And protest if you must but know it shall not change my admiration of your courage and strength of character.”

Frodo blushed, but smiled back at the ranger, grateful to have avoided putting his foot in it. There was, however, one more issue to discuss.

“Strider? May I ask you something?”

“Of course, you may.”

“Is Estel your true name? I have heard others call you that,” Frodo inquired, and seeing Strider’s expression drop, he hurried to add, “I understand you needed to use a different name on the road, of course. Secrecy was important!” Frodo assured. “I just wish to know how to call you.”

Strider smiled tentatively. “Yes, that is true. I could not have my name out in the open, and I thank you for understanding the necessity. I did not mean to lie to you, my friend.”

Frodo waved the apology away. “You didn’t lie. Don’t worry about it. In any case, what are you called then? Estel?”

Strider nodded. “I am called Estel by the elves of Rivendell, as I’ve grown up here, under Lord Elrond’s care. He is the one to have named me thus,” he explained. “But my real name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“You grew up here?”

Strider, or better said, Aragorn nodded. “Indeed, I have. The Lord of Rivendell took me in when I was very young. I actually thought I was an elf when I was a child, until Elrond told me of my true linage.”

Aragorn looked like there was something else he wanted to add, but after some contemplation he eventually shook his head, and Frodo had learned not to pry, so he said nothing.

Aragorn reached down, much like Bilbo had done, and placed a gentle hand on Frodo’s head. “Get better soon, mellon nin. Glorfindel has gone in search of Lord Elrond; they should be by soon. I shall leave you to your rest until then. You need it.”

Frodo nodded as Aragorn pulled back, missing the weight of the warm hand as soon as it had left. He watched as Aragorn exited the room with a happy smile playing on his lips.

 _“You are odd,”_ Sadees declared haughtily and her voice pulled Frodo out of his happy daydreams.

He lifted his brows at the serpent. “ _Odd_?”

_“Indeed. Just tell your ranger you want to mate and be done with it. You are mortal, stop wasting time.”_

Frodo choked on air. He wheezed and started to cough uncontrollably, the movement lighting his shoulder aflame with pain. His eyes watered, his hands clutched at the nightshirt, and he squeezed his lids together as the hurt only kept getting worse and worse.

And that was the state Glorfindel, as well as who Frodo assumed to be Lord Elrond found him in.

“What has happened?” the elf-Lord demanded as he hurried over, placing his fingers over Frodo’s temples, murmuring some sort of chant.

Frodo immediately felt better, the pain in his shoulder lessened considerably, although he couldn’t quite stop the hackling.

“Nothing, sorry,” he wheezed when the episode lost some of its intensity. “Just swallowed wrong.” Glorfindel was watching him doubtfully, but neither elf commented.

Frodo turned to Sadees, who didn’t appear very contrite at all. Frodo glared at her _. “You can’t just say things like that!”_

The snake hissed lazily, unconcerned. _“Why not? It’s true enough.”_

 _“It is NOT!”_ Frodo spat at her, hardly noticing the fingers retreating from his temples.

_“Is too.”_

_“Is not!”_ Frodo screeched at her angrily.

_“Hmpf. Stupid child. I was just trying to help.”_

_“Sure you were, oh wise one,”_ Frodo mocked, rolling his eyes. Sadees simply coiled her body up tighter and turned her gaze to stare somewhere above Frodo’s head, sulking. Frodo resisted the urge to stick his tongue out and settled back with a huff.

He found both elves staring at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, yet again. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

The elf-Lord shook himself out of his daze and stepped back to sink down into the closest chair. Glorfindel followed the example.

“It is quite alright, Master Baggins. We were simply surprised. It is one thing to hear the tale of your unique ability, but witnessing it is much different,” he said, Glorfindel nodding along in agreement. They both looked as if they didn’t know what to make of Frodo, and to ward off the oncoming awkwardness, Frodo quickly addressed the Lord.

“I was told it is your expertise in the art of healing that saved my life,” he started. “I wish to thank you for what you have done for me, Lord Elrond. I am very grateful for your help,” he said with a formal flourish.

“You are most welcome, Master Baggins. It is we who owe you our thanks. Both for your invaluable assistance in getting the Ring to safety, and more personally, I thank you for your courageous actions that saved one dear to my heart.”

“Aragorn?”

Lord Elrond inclined his head. “Yes.”

Frodo really wanted to interrogate the Lord about who, exactly, Aragorn was, and why he had been raised here, but it was not his place to demand such information from the elf-Lord, and he would rather hear it from the man in question anyway. Frodo would have to wait for Aragorn to willingly tell the story himself.

“I must inform you, Master Baggins…” the regal elf began almost hesitantly. Alarm bells chimed in Frodo’s ears as he waited for him to continue. “I must inform you, that despite me having healed you to the very best of my ability, some of the taint caused by the Morgul blade still lingers. I regret to say this, however, that taint is not something I, or anyone else in the mortal realm can expel. It will pain you for the rest of your life.”

Frodo’s eyes widened, and his breath caught. This was… This was bad. Very bad. He let his eyes slide shut for a moment before fixing the orbs on Lord Elrond. In his peripheral, he caught a glimpse of Glorfindel’s clenched jaw and rigid posture.

“How bad?” he asked softly.

“It will get better,” Lord Elrond quickly reassured. “You will be able to function normally.”

Frodo exhaled, slumping. “Well, that’s good, at least,” he muttered. He had lived with much worse than a bit of chronic pain before. He would be fine, he told himself sternly.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Frodo requested abruptly after a moment of quiet introspection.

Lord Elrond wrinkled the flawless skin of his forehead. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t want either Aragorn or Bilbo catching wind of this from anyone, so if possible, please keep the truth to yourself,” Frodo clarified.

The elf-Lord rested a measuring gaze on him.

“You are certain?”

Frodo nodded.

“Then, I shall honour your request.”

“As shall I,” Glorfindel added solemnly.

Frodo smiled at the two gratefully. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while after. It didn’t feel uncomfortable at all, and Frodo began to relax. As he drifted off into sleep, he thought he heard Glorfindel’s whisper.

“I will watch over him.”

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1: Though I do not remember every detail of Glorfindel's story, but here goes what I know (feel free to correct me): Glorfindel slayed a balrog once, long ago. However, he also died in the process. The reason for this was that the balrog caught his long hair and yanked him down into the abyss. Also, to my knowledge, Glorfindel was the only person ever to be resurrected after having entered the Halls of Mandos.
> 
> *2: Berenon= Brave One


	9. Of Rivendell and Feasts

# Chapter 9

The next days crawled by at a snail’s pace and Frodo was bored out of his mind. He almost always had someone sitting with him, of course, but no matter what, lying around in bed day after day was no fun at all. At least the company was good. Of his four regular visitors – Aragorn, Bilbo, Glorfindel and Gandalf – Glorfindel seemed to be spending the most time with him. He often stayed the whole night after declaring that elves needed little sleep, and upon Frodo’s protests he just told him that he liked being there; there really was no arguing with that. It was nice not to feel lonely, although Frodo felt a bit bad that the elf believed he had to do this because of his misplaced sense of guilt. He had tried to assure the elf, repeatedly, that this devotion was not necessary, and that the injury wasn’t really his fault besides, yet Glorfindel just ignored all protests and did whatever he wanted anyway. Stubborn elf.

Sadees was a constant companion and they got along pretty well. Frodo enjoyed their bickering and bantering too, although he would never admit as much under pain of death. Still, it was fun to rile the snake up, especially after her occasional bouts of manic insanity, during which she attempted to goad Frodo into confessing his – non-existent – love for ‘his’ ranger. She assured him that even if the mortal spurned his advances, Frodo still had the nice elf to mate with, so would he _please_ just get on with it?

Frodo really, _really_ wanted to strangle her at times. Why was he being ordered around by everyone, anyway? In any case, getting revenge for the sheer level of mortification the snake caused with her provocation was just fair.

#

The day when Frodo was finally allowed out of his room to explore coincided with the arrival of the last delegates invited to Lord Elrond’s upcoming council, which meant they would be having a feast to welcome all the guests.

“May I attend?” he asked Glorfindel as the elf led him around the keep, pointing out the important sights and beautiful architecture for Frodo to take note of. He also took Frodo to the best places to admire the panorama from.

Rivendell was breath-taking indeed. Frodo had seen some of the valley from his balcony, but it couldn’t compare to the view presented to him from the highest tower of the elf-lord’s residence. He could have happily spent the entire day there.

Make that the entire week. Or year.

“I insist, in fact,” Glorfindel said in answer, watching as Frodo got distracted by his surroundings with a smile.

Blinking and taking a moment to recall what the conversation was supposed to be about, Frodo grinned at his companion, one fast becoming another friend. “Great! I am curious to see everyone. Especially the dwarves; I’ve never met one before.”

Glorfindel’s indulgent smile slipped and morphed into a grimace at that. “Yes. Well. I’m sure you will find them… interesting.”

Frodo smirked at the pinched expression the elf was unsuccessfully attempting to mask. “Is that a new term for distasteful?”

Glorfindel cringed. “Was I that obvious?”

“Nah. But I have spent enough time with you to be able to tell,” Frodo replied, grinning. “Anyway, surely dwarves are not all that bad. From how Bilbo talks about them, they are a bit gruff but still lovable.”

Frodo watched Glorfindel blanch at the word and couldn’t have held back his hysterical giggles if he tried. That expression was priceless.

The elf sniffed in mock-offence. “They are loud, uncouth and burly,” he said. “Not lovable,” he spat in mixture of true incredulousness and horror.

Trying to calm himself, Frodo sucked in a few deep breaths while flapping his hands. “All right, all right,” he wheezed.

Glorfindel let out a longsuffering sigh.

“So…” Frodo started after he managed to catch his breath. “I don’t really know what to wear to such an event. And I don’t actually have any formal wear with me, to be honest. I left most of my clothes behind when I set out from the Shire,” Frodo finished, sobering.

Glorfindel nodded in understanding. “Worry not. I am certain we will be able to find something for you and Bilbo as well,” he said. “Come, let us head back now. We have been out and about for long already, and it would do you no good to be too exhausted for the feast.”

“Too exhausted to eat? Never!” Frodo cried. “I’ll have you know, contrary to all appearances, I am mostly hobbit indeed! And I dare you to try and talk one of us out of a good meal,” he said in amusement.

Glorfindel snorted, very un-elf-like. “Excuse my mistake, master mostly-hobbit. I shall endeavor never to imply such blasphemy again.”

“Good, good.”

“Glorfindel?” a voice questioned tentatively, and both Frodo and the elf whipped around.

Aragorn stood there, in the company of an elf Frodo did not recognize; the one to call Glorfindel’s name. Unlike most elves he knew — except for Glorfindel himself — this one had light, shining blond hair.

“Legolas,” Glorfindel called in surprise, “I knew not that you were sent here with the delegates.”

Legolas shrugged lightly. “Yes, well, I have not seen you around either, old friend. I was told you were rather busy elsewhere…” he said eyes darting to Frodo with some amount of confusion.

“Ah, yes, Legolas, this is Frodo Baggins. Frodo, this here is Legolas, prince of the Woodland realm,” Glorfindel said.

Frodo nodded in greeting. “At your service, your highness.”

“Well met, master Baggins, and none of that, please. Call me Legolas,” he said. “I have heard much about you,” he added, gesturing to Aragorn.

“Frodo,” the ranger greeted with a smile. “I am glad to see you walking around. Lord Elrond released you, then?”

Frodo grinned. “Yes,” he said with enthusiasm, “Glorfindel has been showing me around these past hours. After weeks here, I finally got to see some of Rivendell!”

Aragorn’s smile broadened, and he reached out to place a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, taking care to do so on the uninjured side. “It gladdens me to see you in such good spirits, mellon nin. Are you also attending the welcome feast this night?”

Frodo nodded again happily. “I am. We were just discussing my attire – or rather the lack of it – with Glorfindel. I’m afraid I don’t have anything suitable to wear.”

Humming, Aragorn considered that. “I think I can offer you aid there. I will have something sent for you before nightfall, if that suits you?”

“Of course! Thank you very much,” Frodo said in appreciation. “If it is not too big of a problem, would you mind helping Bilbo out as well? I don’t suppose he has anything in the way of formal attire here either.”

“No problem,” said Aragorn warmly. They smiled at each other for a second, and then Aragorn pulled away, glancing at Legolas. “Shall we, then?”

The elf inclined his head, and after offering their goodbyes they parted, Aragorn and Legolas heading down a corridor leading further into the keep, although not before Legolas shot the two of them one last curious look.

“Come, Frodo. We should also head back,” he called quietly. Frodo glanced at him with eyebrows raised; he had been in good spirits a moment ago. Now his expression was somber again. Maybe he didn’t get along with this Legolas person? They certainly behaved a bit awkwardly, come to think of it.

Instead of prying into wat was likely none of his business, Frodo simply hummed in agreement, and the pair continued on, heading back to Frodo’s room.

#

Glorfindel and Frodo spent the remainder of the day relaxing and talking, the elf eventually regaining his good spirits. Sadees had bitched at Frodo a bit for leaving her alone for the whole day, but she calmed when he promised her to take her to the feast. For some reason, she seemed excited about the whole affair. Frodo suspected she was just bored and wanted to cause mayhem, and he swore to himself that he’d keep a careful eye on her that evening.

The clothes Aragorn had promised arrived not an hour before dinner, and Frodo snorted in amusement when Bilbo burst into his room a few minutes later, waving around his own attire for the night breathlessly, and fussing about the fine quality, the great cut, the stitching and whatever else that came to his mind. Glorfindel found the debacle as funny as Frodo, and the two watched the old hobbit bounce around the room like a tween with large grins on their faces.

Glorfindel soon left to get ready in his own room, and Frodo dressed as well, admiring his outfit as he pulled each layer on. The underclothes were a comfortable, white, silken material, while the upper layers — consisting of an olive-green pair of tight trousers and a nearly floor-length, dark green tunic with finely embroidered golden vines and slits up to the waist — were absolutely gorgeous to behold. It all fit Frodo surprisingly well, even with the tight cut of the tunic. Everything seemed to be the right size, but Frodo felt a bit uncomfortable in something so fine. He didn’t think it really suited him, and he would have rather gone with something a bit plainer, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least Aragorn knew better than to send him shoes.

With a sigh, he fumbled around a bit with the silver chain that was supposed to be worn around the waist as a loose belt, and finally attempted to wrestle his messy hair into something at least resembling order, although that was a lost cause. His only consolation was that Bilbo was in a similar predicament when it came to the taming of his own curls. At least he didn’t suffer alone. With a last sigh in the direction of the mirror, he stretched his arm out for Sadees, the serpent slithering around the appendage and settling around Frodo’s neck like some bulky piece of iridescent silver jewelry. Frodo deemed himself ready enough.

He and Bilbo set out together. His uncle was wearing something quite similar to Frodo, except for the shorter length of the tunic that came in a light blue color, and the upper part wasn’t quite as tight-cut as it was on his nephew. Frodo thought it suited him well. He looked good; despite the fine wrinkles he had accumulated, he appeared younger than he had in years, not to mention happy. He had a constant, bright smile on his face and his baby blue eyes twinkled merrily. If nothing else, this alone would have made the trip worth it in the end.

Bilbo’s joy was infectious, too. Frodo found himself smiling along for no real reason at all, and when they finally approached the dining hall, Bilbo all but skipped inside, heading straight for Gandalf, who was already seated on Lord Elrond’s left. Grinning, Frodo followed his uncle at a more sedate pace, if only to spare himself the embarrassment of tripping over his own tunic and making a fool out of himself in front of so many.

And many they were. Most guests were already present, Frodo feeling the happy expression freezing on his face as all eyes seemed to find him. Well, all right, that was probably an exaggeration, but still. Frodo felt more than one gaze following his progress, and no matter how many years of experience he had in ignoring such focused attention, both as Harry and Frodo, it still made him uncomfortable.

“Frodo,” he heard a familiar voice call, and he found Aragorn waving him over from Lord Elrond’s right, gesturing for Frodo to sit facing Bilbo. Relieved, Frodo hurried over and hopped up onto the chair with as much grace as he could muster, though the height of the seat made that somewhat difficult. To his left sat the elf-prince they had met with Glorfindel, the one called Legolas, and there was another, unknown elf beside Bilbo as well. A few empty seats down sat a number of men, likely the Gondorians, and at the far end of the table was a rowdy cluster of dwarves. Frodo snorted, realizing how convenient the seating was. Elves and dwarves didn’t mix well, and though Frodo was a bit disappointed he wouldn’t get to talk to them, he supposed they would have other opportunities to meet. Focusing his attention back on his neighbors, he shot Aragorn a smile.

“Thank you for the clothes,” he said to him. “They are wonderful and fit very well. How did you know what size they should be?” he asked curiously.

Aragorn shrugged. “I just hoped, to be honest. These used to be my clothes, you see, and I thought I had once been of similar build. I see now I was right; they do, indeed, fit you well,” he said, and Frodo tried very hard not to blush. Aragorn in the meantime continued. “For Bilbo I chose a loose tunic and had a pair of trousers shortened, as there was no time for anything else, and his build is much different.”

“Oh, my uncle adores them, do not worry over that,” Frodo said, gesturing at Bilbo, who was busy discussing something with Gandalf, entirely immersed. He was still smiling, his face radiant in contentment. “He has been like that the whole afternoon. You – and this whole event – made him very happy,” Frodo said with an honest, grateful smile at the ranger.

“It gladdens me to hear,” Aragorn answered. He then glanced up and spotted a few of the missing guests entering the room. “Glorfindel,” he said in greeting when the elf walked up to them, taking his seat beside Legolas. Frodo also leaned over and waved at him, grinning.

Once all spots were filled at the table, Lord Elrond stood.

“Welcome to the valley of Imladris,” he said to the room at large. “I trust your stay at my home so far has been comfortable and your accommodations satisfactory.” He paused, and thankfully not even the dwarves were rude enough to be contrary. “Despite the dire circumstances that have brought us all together,” a wave of murmurs swept through the room, “I am pleased to have you all here, and hope that this time spent in each other’s company will strengthen the friendships between us all. As the free peoples of Middle Earth, we must stand strong together in the face of evil. Our alliance, born of friendship and goodwill, is the largest advantage we have against the looming threat. The dark lord’s taint is spreading again and must be stopped.” After a pause, Lord Elrond added, “However, let us not spoil this night with tidings of such darkness. We shall assemble on the morrow, and discussions of this nature are best left for the council chamber. Please, for this night, make merry and feast to your heart’s content, my friends.”

Lord Elrond clapped his hands together, and elves poured into the dining room leaden by large trays, immediately catering to the guests, placing platters of food and pitchers of wine on the table, and asking all whether they had need of anything else. They then moved away to stand by the wall once their services were no longer required.

Frodo shifted a bit in discomfort. He hated being served; a remnant of his days spent with the Dursleys. Back then he had been the one made to wait on his so-called family. Legolas, who had been watching Frodo curiously, noticed his squirming and asked, “What might the problem be, Master Baggins?”

Frodo winced. “Oh, no, nothing. I just find the situation somewhat disconcerting. But never mind that,” he waved it off, not really knowing how to explain. “Please, call me Frodo.”

“Very well, Frodo,” Legolas said. “Disconcerting how?” he asked in interest, either unable or unwilling to notice that Frodo was not comfortable with the topic. Not terribly diplomatic for royalty, now was he?

Frodo started to shrug but aborted the movement jerkily when a twinge of pain reminded him of his bad shoulder. Sadees also hissed at him in annoyance at getting jostled.

To Legolas, he said, “It is nothing, really. I just don’t like others serving me.”

Legolas furrowed his brows in confusion but gave up the subject easily enough after noticing Frodo’s disgruntled tone. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Sadees. “It is beautiful,” Legolas commented. “I have heard word of a serpent that has been found, but I must admit that I could hardly believe it until I saw with my own eyes.”

Frodo smiled at that. “Yes, she is quite unusual,” he said fondly, bringing up a hand to run his fingers over her scales affectionately. She hissed in pleasure, all previous annoyance forgotten. “Her name is Sadees.”

“Is it true you can speak to her?”

Frodo nodded. “I could show you. Do you want to touch her?”

The elf inclined his head in tentative agreement.

 _“Hey, Sadees, would you mind if Legolas stroked your scales?”_ he hissed at her, hearing a sharp indrawn breath from more than just the elf beside him. He glanced up, noticing the attention of most guests within hearing distance. Frodo reddened, ducking his head, and he heard Aragorn chuckle at his predicament. He kicked the stupid ranger’s chair in retaliation.

 _“He may pet me,”_ Sadees answered in the meantime haughtily.

Frodo cleared his throat. “Uhm, she said you may pet her.”

Legolas reached out a hand tentatively, and very, very gently placed his fingers on Sadees’ body, running the tips down in the direction of her scales, appearing fascinated by the texture. Frodo saw Glorfindel lean forward from behind Legolas, watching the prince’s fascinated examination with a smirk.

“She really is beautiful,” Legolas repeated.

Frodo smiled, and repeated it to Sadees. _“He finds you to be beautiful.”_

 _“Well naturally,”_ she stated. _“I like this elfling. You may mate with him too, if you wish.”_

 _“Sadees!”_ Frodo chocked.

The serpent just produced a hissy laugh, uncoiling from around Frodo’s neck and quickly winding around the elf’s arm. Legolas gave a start, but he eventually drew his arm back carefully, and let the snake slip into his lap.

_“Tell him I am to be petted.”_

Face red as a tomato, Frodo dearly wanted to spit curses at Sadees, but being at a loss of anything coherent to say, he just sighed, informed Legolas she liked to be stroked curtly, and quickly turned away. They would see how the stupid snake would like to sleep on the terrace that night, Frodo thought evilly.

#

Aside from the unfortunate incident with Sadees, the feast passed by pleasantly. Frodo was introduced to the unknown elf, Erestor, and to some of the men as well. They all seemed nice enough, except for the large, auburn–haired one, Boromir, who acted somewhat arrogantly despite the jovial tone, especially towards his fellow men but also towards Bilbo and Frodo. When Frodo quietly questioned Aragorn about him, the ranger had told him that Boromir was the eldest son of the Steward of Gondor, admired by many as a valiant warrior and future ruler. Frodo got the feeling Aragorn also didn’t like him much.

Once the feast came to an end, Frodo stood and glared down at Sadees, who had demanded Legolas’ attention for the whole duration of the night, and remained coiled in his lap, now snoozing contentedly. Sighing, Frodo stepped closer.

“May I?” he asked Legolas, pointing at the serpent.

“Of course.”

Frodo poked the creature unceremoniously. Sadees’ head snapped up, hissing colorful curses, the volume rising when she noticed a grinning Frodo watching her.

 _“Rise and shine, Sadees. You have a wonderful night to look forward to,”_ Frodo promised with a smirk. _“You’ll love the view from the terrace, I’m sure of it.”_

Sadees’ hisses cut off abruptly. _“It is cold. You wouldn’t.”_

Frodo raised his brows. _“Oh really,”_ he deadpanned.

They watched each other for a moment, then Sadees suddenly shot off the elf’s lap, and slithered, full speed, to the door. Frodo giggled at her strategic retreat. He did wonder where she would spend the night though… Perhaps she’d sneak into Aragorn’s bed? That was entirely possible.

Still grinning, he turned back to Legolas. “Sorry about that and thank you for putting up with her for the whole time. She isn’t usually so forward with others, but she liked you a lot,” Frodo said, then added conspiratorially, “You really shouldn’t have complimented her.”

Legolas shrugged elegantly. “I did not mind,” he said, lips quirking. “Worse things have happened to me than encountering a cuddly serpent.”

Frodo’s eyes widened, and he snickered. “Oh, that’s a good one,” he said mirthfully. Legolas watched him in amusement. “Anyway, thanks again for keeping her out of trouble. I’ll see you tomorrow, Legolas. Have a good night.”

“And you as well,” the elf said.

Frodo waved at Aragorn and Lord Elrond, the two conversing with each other, and when he spotted a slightly tipsy Bilbo babbling away at Gandalf, he decided to leave them be as well. Glorfindel was waiting for him, and the two headed out of the room together.

“Did you have fun?” the elf asked as they strolled down the hall.

“Yes. It is different from what I am used to. Hobbits parties are loud and exhausting, but this was enjoyable, too,” Frodo answered, a bit wistful, despite himself.

Glorfindel was silent for a second. “Do you miss it? Your home?” he asked quietly.

Frodo sighed. “I miss some things, yes. I loved the nature that surrounded us; hobbits are very closely connected, you know? Our houses, the smials, are large underground homes dug into the hillsides, though furnished very nicely. Everything back in the Shire is so natural. Peaceful and calm. Life is simple. The biggest problems hobbits face are jalousies about the size of the neighbor’s pumpkins,” Frodo said with a chuckle. “Other things, I don’t miss as much. Hobbits are a gossipy bunch, you know? And they could be quite mean to outsiders,” Frodo muttered, thinking of the years he spent constantly followed by the disapproving whispers. “But on the whole, it is our home; mine and Bilbo’s. I hope to go back someday.”

Glorfindel lifted a hand and placed it on Frodo’s shoulder, tentative at first, but firmer when Frodo didn’t shrug the touch off. The elf squeezed gently.

“I am sorry you were forced to leave.”

Frodo smiled. “Don’t worry, Glorfindel. I have made my peace with the current circumstances. As it stands, I will likely not be able to go back home for a long time. Bilbo may never see the Shire again. We never talk about it, but I think he knows.”

“I am sorry.” Glorfindel truly sounded pained.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the tears. It wasn’t as if crying would help. He hated being helpless, and crying left him feeling week. He wanted to be strong. Rivendell was a beautiful place, not at all something to complain over. He liked being here, and he had made amazing friends. The Shire was important to Frodo, yes, but not being able to go back for a while was not the end of the world.

Frodo shook his head to dislodge the thoughts, noticing he and Glorfindel had been standing around in the middle of the hallway. With an embarrassed cough, he quickly began walking again, Glorfindel following along beside him. The elf escorted Frodo all the way back to his room, the walk silent, yet not uncomfortable. Once they arrived by the entrance to Frodo’s chambers, Glorfindel reached out to touch him again, this time more confident.

“Sleep well, Frodo. I will see you tomorrow,” he said, sliding his hand away. “I will come greet you in the morning, and we can go to the council meeting together.”

Frodo nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “Good night, Glorfindel. And thank you for your kindness.”

With a last, small smile, Frodo entered his chamber and closed the door with a soft snick.

#


	10. Of Council Meetings and Rings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> A reviewer pointed out a possible point of confusion, and I thought I'd explain a bit, since others might have the same issue as well. Anyway, I was asked why Frodo was acting so bashful when he was supposed to be pretty damn old, what with Harry's previous lifespan and all. It is a good question.
> 
> Basically, the reason for his behavior is the 30+ years he spent among hobbits. He is not really bashful about sexuality, per se, more so unused to any sort of improper or overly forward behavior. Just think about Bilbo's reactions to dwarves and their uncouth manners, and Frodo positively pales in comparison. Simply put though, he is just used to hobbitly sensibilities.

# Chapter 10

The members of the council were horribly noisy. Well, the dwarves were, in any case. The _two_ dwarves. How in Eru’s name did two dwarves manage to make that much damn noise? It was ridiculous, Frodo thought with a sigh.

From the larger entourages he had seen yesterday, there were a lot fewer to attend the actual meeting today. As noted, there were two dwarves present, the one with gray hair and beard seeming older than the other, red haired one. They wore braids and had many tiny beads of all kinds of colors woven into their beards, the tinkling chimes as they clacked together adding to the cacophony the duo singlehandedly produced.

At least Bilbo seemed to be enjoying their company, sitting beside the older dwarf and laughing at their antics, unlike the elves, who watched them in dismay from a safe distance away, making Frodo grin at the childish scene. The elves, from what Frodo could see, were all present from yesterday, except for Lord Elrond, who had yet to arrive.

Of the Gondorians, there was only a single one in attendance, and Frodo held back a grimace when he identified the person as Boromir, son of the Steward.

As Frodo scanned the room, he spotted Aragorn waving at him from where he was conversing quietly with Legolas, calling for him and Glorfindel to join them. Frodo shot a quick glance at Bilbo, but he appeared perfectly fine on his own. Besides, Frodo honestly wasn’t sure if he still wanted to get all that close to the dwarves. They were _so loud_.

“Welcome, Frodo, Glorfindel,” Aragorn said, Legolas echoing the words.

“Mae govannen,” Glorfindel answered, Frodo saying a short “Good morning.”

After settling down, Frodo hummed thoughtfully. “Aragorn? Have you come across Sadees, by any chance?”

“As it so happens,” Aragorn drawled, “I have, yes.”

Frodo waited for some elaboration, but none was forthcoming. “And?” he prompted. “Where is that you encountered her?”

“As it furthermore happened, I awoke to find the infernal serpent under my covers, sleeping cosily. Perhaps you know how this came to pass?” Aragorn asked drily.

Frodo’s palm shot up to cover his mouth before he started laughing manically, a few snorts escaping between the fingers anyway. “Ah, well, yes… Well. I kind of threatened her to lock her out on the balcony.”

“The balcony,” he repeated.

Frodo nodded, arranging his face into a serious expression. “The balcony.”

The two elves and Aragorn stared at him.

Frodo shrugged. “She would have deserved it,” he said, and sensing the doubtful air, added, “Honest. And where is she, anyway?”

Aragorn considered that seriously. “The serpent was quite determined to stay glued to myself. I could have hardly been expected to dress with a serpent slithering all around me, now could I?”

“… Aragorn?”

“I’m afraid she is in my closet.”

“You locked her into the closet.”

“Indeed.”

Frodo stared with the two elves. Then he huffed, relaxing into the chair. “Well, she did deserve it.”

Aragorn nodded. “Quite.”

Glorfindel and Legolas wisely chose not to comment further on the topic.

After that, they did not have to wait long for Lord Elrond to make an appearance. In his hand, he carried a small pouch Frodo recognised with dread. Walking up to the front of the room, the elf placed the bundle upon a small, craved marble dais, and turned to look at the assembled.

“Heavy news it is that we must discuss today. Urgent messages had been sent to your realms, as the danger we face is grave.”

“What, exactly, is this about? You’ve called us all here, and I, for one, would know to what end!” the red-haired dwarf growled, interrupting.

“That is true, Gimli, son of Gloin, we have not disclosed the information as it was much too sensitive to have it penned down, and the messengers themselves were not told either, lest they get captured.” Elrond paused. “The One Ring has been found.”

Frodo heard Legolas’ startled intake of breath.

“The One Ring?” the dwarf asked, sounding confused.

Lord Elrond nodded. “The Dark Lord Sauron’s ring, the artefact he had forged in the fires of Mount Doom to gain control of and enslave the free peoples of Middle Earth. It was designed with the intention to dominate all lesser rings of power forged by the elves, given as gifts to the dwarven lords and kings of men. The One Ring holds most of Sauron’s power today. We must prevent it from falling into his hands at any cost, or all on Arda shall suffer.”

“So, Isildur’s Bane really has been found… It holds power, you say?” Boromir spoke up in awe. “Why not use it, then? The men of Gondor have long struggled against the threat of Mordor. We could use something like that. We need help desperately!” he exclaimed, surging to his feet and walking over to the dais.

Frodo watched him reach for the pouch and sprung up.

“Don’t!” he cried, running to stop the fool man from revealing the vile thing. It was in vain, however. Boromir hardly glanced at him. As soon as Frodo got near, he pushed him away, sneering when he reached for the pouch now clutched in the man’s large hand. Frodo flew back and cried out when he hit the floor, his shoulder was jostled, and the impact sent a surge of pain through his body. Immediately, Glorfindel was kneeling beside him, Aragorn standing over them with a thunderous expression.

“You dare?!” Aragorn snarled at the Gondorian.

But Boromir was hardly paying the scene any mind. He was entirely focused on the small, metal box he had unpacked and now held reverently. Frodo saw what he was about to do, and shouted again, hoping against all hope he would listen.

“Stop!”

Yet Boromir took no heed and opened the lid.

Aragorn suddenly sprung forward, sword in hand, and knocked the box out of Boromir’s hold. The Ring went flying, all eyes following its trajectory as if in slow motion, and it finally landed in the middle of the circular chamber.

It was as if the very air had frozen. No one moved, all staring at the Ring fixedly. Frodo felt as if darkness had descended upon them, coiling, chocking. He watched, terrified, as the eyes of everyone darkened, a golden glint of greed appearing in their depths as the Ring sung its vile, silent song of power.

Before anyone knew what happened, Frodo surged forward, grabbing the ring and pocketing it unceremoniously.

As if a trance had been broken, the people present blinked as one, and the air cleared of the heavy darkness that had poisoned it.

From his kneeling position, Frodo simply said, “It is dangerous. Please don’t wave it around like that.”

Boromir stared at him in bewilderment.

Aragorn shook his head, and with one more murderous glare at Boromir, he sheathed his sword and walked over to Frodo. He stretched his hand out in invitation and Frodo took it gratefully, smiling wryly as he was pulled to his feet. Glorfindel too, was suddenly there, glued to his other side.

“If everyone would please take their seats,” Lord Elrond called, although he, too, looked somewhat shaken.

Once all were situated, Gandalf slammed his staff on the floor. “I am sure you now realise,” he said to Boromir angrily, “the One Ring is not for us to wield.”

Aragorn nodded, jaw clenched. “Isildur’s Bane has only one master. It shall only ever serve Sauron,” he spat at Boromir.

The other man, though unsettled, snorted at that. “And what would a simple ranger like you know? Leave these matters to those that can deal with it.”

It was, surprisingly, Legolas who chose to retort. “Watch your words, Boromir, son of Denethor,” he started, watching Boromir as if he were a particularly nasty bug in Legolas’ food. “It is no mere ranger you thus insult. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur and the rightful king of Gondor. You owe him your allegiance.” (1)

Boromir opened his mouth to argue as soon as the elf had first spoken, but he now floundered, not knowing how to react. It was not only Boromir who was surprised, either. The dwarves for one, were eyeing the ranger, measuring and completely silent for a change.

And then there was Frodo, who glanced at Aragorn with eyebrows raised. Aragorn shrugged nonchalantly. Frodo sighed. Aragorn huffed. Frodo smirked.

A king, huh.

So this is what Aragorn had been keeping to himself. Frodo understood, too. One didn’t advertise their status to people they were really attempting to befriend. His experiences as Harry Potter had taught him as much. It was always best to keep one’s identity secret as long as possible when it had such a negative impact on their social interactions.

Managing to collect himself, Boromir snarled at Aragorn. “Gondor needs no king,” he announced curtly.

Frodo could just about feel the urge Aragorn had to roll his eyes, smothered with much difficulty. Frodo didn’t have Aragorn’s self-control.

“What about the Ring then?” Bilbo asked, and Frodo noticed he looked very pale and small beside the dwarves. Concerned, he hoped the sight of the Ring was not too much for him. Frodo never wanted to see his uncle influenced by it again. That one time was more than enough to convince him that Bilbo should not be anywhere near the thing.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Gandalf remarked. “It must be destroyed.”

Most present murmured in agreement. Boromir was, of course, a notable exception. He kept glowering at everyone, sulking like a child.

“Well then let us get it over with,” Gimli said, reaching for his axe.

“Halt!” Lord Elrond called. Gimli froze. “It is not something easily destroyed. There is, in fact, only one way I know of to do it.”

“And what is that?”

“Only whence it once came from can it be once again unmade. The Ring has to be taken to Mount Doom.”

At this, the uproar was immediate. The dwarves, Boromir and even Legolas were all talking at once, a constant string of protests upon their lips. Frodo, too, could hardly hold back his astonished denial. Surely not! How on earth could anyone get the Ring to Mordor, let alone Mount Doom? It was impossible! All the armies on Middle Earth would not be enough to succeed at such a feat. Surely there was another way?  

Aragorn, Glorfindel and Gandalf had obviously been aware of this piece of information, since they did not seem surprised, just resigned.

“Perhaps we could throw it into the sea by the Grey Havens?” Glorfindel offered, although the suggestion was half-hearted at best.

Gandalf shook his head. “It would resurface eventually. It must be destroyed to end the threat of Sauron for good.”

“But to take it to Mordor… How do you suggest we do that?” Boromir asked incredulously. “It would be a suicide mission at the best! Even while the dark lord is not aware of the threat, once stepping foot in Mordor we would hold no chance against him and his army of orcs.”

“I’m afraid that it is also too late for complete secrecy.” Lord Elrond interrupted. “Sauron knows the Ring has resurfaced.”

“What? How?!”

“The Ring had originally been found by a creature named Gollum,” Gandalf said. “After owning it for a great many years, the Ring had twisted him. When Bilbo came upon him, he had not much sanity left, and he was tricked into giving the Ring up. Bilbo had taken care of it, but even he had been affected by its treachery eventually. Fortunate though it was that Frodo, who had witnessed the disturbing effect the Ring had on his uncle, had the good sense to take it and hide it, never to set sight on it again.”

Frodo and Bilbo both nodded.

“That said, Aragorn and myself had captured the creature, Gollum some time back, and he had confessed to having been to Mordor. He had revealed information about Bilbo and the Ring to his captors. The Nine had already been set to the hunt.”

“The Nine? So it is true that the Ringwraiths have appeared?” Legolas asked in apprehension.

Aragorn nodded to that. “Yes. It was Frodo who brought the ring to Rivendell at great personal peril. I had been sent to escort him, but we ran afoul of the Nazgúl.”

“You bore the Ring?” Boromir burst out, incredulous. “You?”

Frodo scoffed at his disbelieving tone. “Yes, I did,” he said. “And do,” he added nastily, clutching at his pocket while reminding the horrid man of what he had done not a few minutes past. Boromir didn’t bat an eye.

“The creature you left in our care,” Legolas spoke up, ignoring the byplay, “Gollum. He escaped. I regret we have not been cautious enough. Many elven guards had felt pity for the wretched thing though.” He shook his head. “He will also be after the Ring.”

Everyone remained silent then, considering all.

It was Glorfindel who spoke up at long last. “We must get the Ring to Mordor. There really is no other way.”

“Again,” Boromir snorted, “How? Our armies have been battling the threat for years. There is no way to get through the Black Gate, this I can say with certainty.”

“Perhaps a single man can succeed where an army fails,” Gandalf hummed. “I suggest we sneak in.”

Lord Elrond considered that. “Yes, that would work. A small group, invisible, could perhaps avoid detection.”

“This is ridiculous,” Boromir hissed.

“Hold that tongue, for once,” Aragorn forced out through gritted teeth. There was apparently an end even to a saint’s patience, Bilbo observed in mild interest, more focused on the issue of sneaking into Mordor.

“But who will bear the Ring?” Gloin asked.

There was absolute silence.

“It will not be safe in our hands. You saw how we reacted to it,” Legolas murmured, still disconcerted about the debacle.

Frodo sat in silence. Truly, they were out of options, weren’t they? None of them could be trusted with the Ring. It had affected every single one of them, Frodo had seen it. None of them could resist its lure for long. Except…

“I’ll take it,” he whispered hoarsely.

All heads whipped around to stare at him.

“I’ll take the Ring to Mordor.”

He saw the protest forming on everyone’s lips and said in a wavering voice, “You know there is no one else here that can.”

Glorfindel opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Frodo saw the horrified understanding on him, similar to Aragorn, who also sat rigidly, fists clenched and obviously scouring his brain for anything, anything at all, that they could do differently.

“No!” Bilbo suddenly snapped.

Frodo winced. “Bilbo…”

“No! I won’t hear of it! It was bad enough that you had to deal with it once! Then, too, you… you’ve gone and done as you pleased, and I let you despite my better judgement. And look where it got you! Unconscious for a fortnight after getting skewered by a Morgul blade!”

Legolas sucked in a sharp breath, but Frodo took no note. Sighing, he slumped in his chair. He reached up and rubbed his forehead wearily. “What would you have me do, Bilbo? What other choice do we have?”

“Plenty!” the hobbit snapped. “This is no longer our concern. We’ve done our part.”

“Bilbo,” Lord Elrond called gently. “While I do understand your worry, no one is exempt from the threat the Ring poses. Everyone is equally effected, you know this. If it isn’t destroyed, the whole of Middle Earth will suffer for it.” He hesitated. “And it is true that Frodo is the only among us able to withstand the temptation the Ring poses. We have seen this. Not one of us could be trusted with bearing it.”

“Please, Bilbo,” Frodo pleaded for understanding.

Bilbo growled, stood, and stalked out of the chamber. Frodo stared at his retreating back.

“I’ve never seen him quite that mad before,” he said faintly.

Aragorn placed a soothing hand on his back. “He is only worried, mellon nin.” He then leaned closer to whisper in Frodo’s ear, “You do not have to do this, my friend. There is always another way. I also find myself… displeased. Brave and noble of intention you may be, but you are no warrior. It is not right to ask this of you.”

Frodo shivered, ears turning pink. He leaned away, took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his face.

“It matters not. I can train myself if need be. Regardless, there is no one else suited for the task, yet one of you would certainly try if I did not. Do you think I can be so callous as to send my friends to certain doom for naught but cowardliness on my part? I, at least, stand a chance.“

Aragorn closed his eyes in understanding. Then he stood, and dropped to one knee to face Frodo. “In that case, you have my sword.”

“And mine,” Glorfindel said immediately.

“You have my bow,” added Legolas.

“And my axe,” the red-headed dwarf, Gimli roared in determination. (2)

Boromir shifted and huffed. “If all have agreed to destroy the Ring, there is nothing more for it. I will bow my head in face of the council’s decision, and I, too, shall accompany the Ringbearer.”

“The powers of a wizard you may need,” Gandalf said.

Overwhelmed, Frodo looked at each of them in turn and had to fight back tears again.

“Thank you,” he whispered, not knowing how to show the sheer amount of gratitude he held. He had found wonderful friends, hadn’t he? Even Legolas and the dwarf, despite Frodo knowing next to nothing about them, held his admiration. Boromir, too, did not have to offer, yet he did. If for nothing else, Frodo could respect him for an honourable decision.

The council broke up soon after. It was decided that they would reconvene the next month to discuss the details of the quest. In the meantime, Lord Elrond would send out scouts around the land, to get a better idea about the dangers they may face on each possible route. They would need knowledge about the Nazgúl especially, as they were to be avoided at all costs. Orcs, too, could be a possible source of danger if Sauron sent them out in force. The company would need to avoid all confrontations in any case; this was to be a mission of secrecy. The longer Sauron remained ignorant of their intentions, the better. That was why scouting beforehand was vital. With the information the elves would gather, the company could better plan the journey to Mount Doom.

Having agreed upon their next course of action, the members left the council chamber. Frodo walked with Aragorn and Glorfindel in silence for a while but turned to them after a few minutes.

“Thank you, Glorfindel, Aragorn. I cannot tell you how much your support means to me.”

The elf and ranger opened their mouths at the same time to protest, but Frodo cut them off.

“I am truly grateful. But… I think I would like some time alone? I’m sorry, but I really need…”

Glorfindel shushed him with hand on Frodo’s chest, right over his heart, fingers splayed. “We understand, mellon nin. You do not have to explain yourself to us.”

Aragorn nodded.

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered. To Aragorn he then said, trying to sound teasing, “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind freeing Sadees from your closet? She is either very angry by now, or she slept the whole time. Unless she actually escaped,” he added thoughtfully. Sadees could be quite inventive.

Aragorn smiled slightly. “Of course.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you at dinner?” Frodo asked.

Both nodded, and Aragorn walked off after one more reassuring smile. Glorfindel, having waited for Aragorn to retreat to some distance, studied Frodo in the meantime. Then, without any warning whatsoever, he swooped down and planted a soft kiss on Frodo’s forehead. Frodo went completely still, eyes wide as he watched the elf walk off after Aragorn without another word. His stomach fluttered pleasantly.

Eru help him…

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) and (2) are sections that are pretty close to the original wording.
> 
> AN: I will be posting some art for this fanfic soon, since many of you seem a bit confused or even leery about the height difference I describe. To be clear, Frodo will not magically grow or anything. His height will stay the same, but it is not quite as weird as some of you seem to be imagining. In modern terms, think of a 6'5 guy with a 5 feet-ish girl/guy. Unusual, but not really that weird or unnatural. Also, Frodo is somewhat taller than other hobbits if you recall, too.


End file.
